


gunmetal black

by apocryphic, gee



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Jesse McCree, M/M, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2018-08-14 06:49:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 47,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8002522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocryphic/pseuds/apocryphic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gee/pseuds/gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesse isn't fooled by Genji Shimada, but he's getting the distinct feeling that Genji Shimada isn't fooled by him either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a love story, but that doesn't mean there won't be love in it, between the lines and the negative spaces. This is a fic in which we learn Genji Shimada through pieces.
> 
> But before we know Genji, we have to know McCree.

_"It must be done."_

Silence greets the words. A bowed head hides the face of a man who should know better.

_"This cannot be tolerated any longer."_

His head raises, dark strands of hair falling loose; his expression is meticulously crafted to give nothing away. Against his _hakama_ where his hands rest, feet beneath his legs, his knuckles are bone pale. The _saikō-komon_ do not titter. They watch with eyes of stone. The man feels the stares pinning him in place — they already know what his response will be.

_"You must prove yourself more than your father before you."_

He knows how it will feel before he says it — a blade between his lungs, an avalanche over his head.

 _"I will not falter,"_ Hanzo Shimada promises.

A fate is sealed with the answer.

 

* * *

 

 

"I'm truckin', sir. The weather's mighty fine."

Jesse McCree stretches his legs out where he's comfortably planted in his chair, having no intention of moving anytime soon. Spending every night studying even the smallest, unreachable points in Hanamura has left his muscles begging mercy something awful — the architecture practically begs for people like him to crawl across rooftops. Unfortunately for him, he's never been one for climbing anything much taller than a milkcrate and has already made the mistake of telling Reyes. In return, Jesse got a rather terse reminder of how he should've kept up with cardio and strength training instead of putting all his time into weaponry, which turned into Jesse saying _I didn't get t'be the best shot in your command by sittin' around liftin' weights_.

Then Reyes had inevitably played the don't-talk-to-your-superior-officers-like-that- _kid_ card and Jesse had been inevitably forced to surrender in all of his twenty-seven year old aw- _c'mon_ -I-ain't-a-kid glory.

On the other end of the line, Jesse can hear the Blackwatch commander shuffling through something. Files, maybe, or all five of his work tablets. A moment passes and there's the distressed beeping of a datapad that's had too many buttons pressed at once; that answers that. Reyes hisses a particularly choice string of curses beneath his breath. Jesse whistles at him for it.

"Oh? Is this a good time to plan a vacation in Hanamura, then?" Reyes asks flatly once he's quieted all of his various devices.

It's both a question and a trap. Jesse chooses not to answer for fear of getting caught within the verbal confines of a net he wouldn't be able to escape without embarrassing himself.

"The Shimadas've been quiet. Nothin' on that front," Jesse reports instead. It's the right move; Reyes listens. "So, either the family's rampin' up for somethin' big that  _they're_ doin', or they're keepin' their heads down for somethin' bigger that they _ain't_."

"That how you feel, or is that what you know?"

"Both, sir," Jesse says. He taps metal fingers rhythmically against his thigh. "The Shimada-gumi got more in the way of organization than the Deadlocks ever had, but I know a gang when I see one. When things go quiet, it's 'cause any kinda attention's gonna be bad attention. People here know it. The Shimadas' place is right in the middle of Hanamura, and nobody wants to make the mistake of givin' it a second glance."

"Any other clans in the area?" Reyes asks. Jesse knows what he's getting at; he already looked into it himself.

"Naw. They got a tight grip here. Anybody stupid enough to challenge 'em might as well just go ahead and trip on their own fancy sword."

The comment gets a snort out of Reyes. "What about the Shimadas themselves? Anything noteworthy?"

That's Reyes' way of saying _look where it matters_. It's also a way of saying that he can't tolerate Jesse missing anything. Reyes knows Jesse's taking it seriously, _of course_ he does, but he's still Jesse's boss; they'd had to fight another damn war with the brass just to get clearance to have a Blackwatch agent on the mission at all. The fact that Jesse's technically half an Overwatch agent might put him in better favor, but considering the original plan called for two agents — not three, and especially not one who's barely got anything under his Overwatch record as it is — puts them both in the hotseat.

(The _best_ of Jesse's work is buried beneath miles of security locks and clearance levels. Jesse can't say a word about any of it, even if he wants to.)

So with everything that it's taken to get him here, Jesse doesn't like having to give Reyes bad news.

"Sorta," Jesse hedges, continuing quickly: "Genji Shimada took off almost a week ago. Saw him leave, never saw him come back. I would've noticed. Hanzo Shimada hasn't shown his face since." Jesse digs a thumb into a worn, pale spot on his jeans. "I've been all over, Reyes. I don't got a damn clue where he disappeared to. People ain't shuttin' up about it either, s'far as I can tell. Genji Shimada's a helluva public figure."

Reyes is quiet, but it's not a quiet that warns of an oncoming storm. It seems more like he's mulling over Jesse's answers. Jesse takes the chance to get to his aching feet, padding over to the fridge in search of a drink. Ninja hunting is thirsty work — so long as Jesse doesn't accidentally choke, he won't have to hear Reyes' eye-roll from almost six thousand miles away.

"The brothers didn't leave together?" Reyes says while Jesse pokes his head into the fridge, phone propped between his shoulder and ear.

"There _definitely_ would've been some kinda mobilization if the current head of the family skipped town," says Jesse, chewing on a fingernail. He takes a bottled water, turning the cap off with a quiet _pop_. "The dad's been dead, what — two months by now? Hanzo Shimada leaves, everything's gonna go up in flames, poof." Jesse takes a sip.

"Thank you for the imagery." Reyes gives him that six-thousand-miles-away roll of his eyes despite all of Jesse's attempts to stave it off. He can _hear_ the sound of it in Reyes' voice. Damn.

The conversation moves on; Reyes digs, Jesse gives him what little he can and shrugs away the rest. Overwatch already had a sizable file for the Shimada-gumi; this mission that Jesse is on is less meant as a detailed recon to provide information beyond 'they're doing illegal things.' Looking for holes to exploit in the yakuza clan is next to impossible — Jesse doesn't say as much, or else Reyes will fire back with _people expect the impossible out of us every day._

It's not hard logic to follow, really. The Shimada-gumi's boss dies, his eldest son takes over as their tradition dictates, Overwatch suddenly gets interested. The Shimadas have been on the to-do list for a while now; figuring out if they can make a real push while the family's recovering from their loss and Hanzo's still finding his footing — it's a tactical decision Jesse can appreciate, even as pointless as it feels now. The op is really nothing but staying alert and sending all relevant observations back to base, but Reyes is expecting something solid, Reyes doesn't work with hypotheticals. Jesse can't bring him a _maybe_ when Reyes wants a _yes_.

In the hotel room next to Jesse's, Amari is no doubt having a similar talk with Commander Morrison. Jesse can't begin to guess what Angela is up to, partially because she's leagues ahead of him as far as jargon goes and majorly because she's been holed away in her room nearly the whole visit.

Jesse's feet hurt. He frowns at them and wonders if Angela's got anything to help him out.

"I wouldn't have pushed for your involvement if I didn't think you could handle it," Reyes is saying; the serious tone he's using cuts through Jesse's aches and pains and forces him to pay attention, as if the Blackwatch Commander is standing right in front of him rather than sitting at a desk that's roughly a fifteen-hour flight away. "So don't prove me wrong. Get me _anything_ that can justify you being there. Specifically _you_ , not Overwatch."

Reyes' faith in him is as comforting as it is intimidating, which is nothing new. Jesse has to bite his tongue to keep himself from asking — _why aren't_ you _here?_

"Gotcha, sir," Jesse says, his initial frown so small it might have been nonexistent.

"You're Blackwatch. Doesn't matter how many Overwatch ops you help out with, you'll never be _anything_ to them but Blackwatch." Reyes is intense, critical; Jesse can picture it now, the commander leaning forward in his chair seriously, eyes dark. "This whole thing with the Shimada family, it's going to set a precedent. So set the bar as high as you goddamn can."

"I'll figure it out." Jesse moves to take a peek out of his room’s window, spying the high roof of the Shimada Castle from a distance. "If I die tryin' to get into this damn castle, you can have my share of supper."

"I'm touched," Reyes says dryly, but Jesse thinks he might hear a smile playing in it.

"Hey, if I get somethin' good outta all this, you finally gonna admit I beat your high score in the trainin' arena?"

"McCree —" One of Reyes' datapads beeps demandingly. Reyes sighs; whatever he says next will be a clear dismissal; more needful matters remain in front of him while his honorary second-in-command has been running around Japan hoping for the best for the past two weeks. "This is all you, cowboy. Get friendly with the locals, you like doing that." Jesse catches the soft sound of an intermittent, haptic keyboard buzz. Reyes has already moved on. "Make something happen."

They disconnect. Jesse thinks it all over while he leans his shoulder on the wall, biting the inside of his cheek.

Jesse's first instinct is telling him to give another go at tracking down Genji Shimada. Jesse doesn't know where the sons of yakuza bosses go to relax, but he's confident that he can figure it out fairly easily considering how well-known Genji is in the area. The other option is to storm the castle as stealthily as possible while hoping Hanzo's inexperience at running a criminal organization keeps him from slitting Jesse's throat in some dark corner or another. They need something undeniably useful; they're not going to get it while sitting around.

They'd have far more luck with Genji, Jesse already knows. Whether the youngest son is going to want to divulge the secrets of the family business or not doesn't matter. If he's cooperative, Jesse can handle it himself, report back, and they can work on mobilizing a larger group of agents to take care of whatever happens.

But if Genji decides to keep his mouth shut, it's absolutely possible Jesse is going to have to give the guy a very tense flight back to base so that Reyes can have a talk with him instead.

Jesse doesn't like either of those outcomes despite how he's already thinking through their benefits. Overwatch could provide protection to Genji if he decides to help without being under duress, but Jesse knows that the only way to keep a wild dog from biting is to take out its teeth — his family would never stop chasing him for the betrayal.

Another fault within the plan: Genji Shimada hasn't struck Jesse as the kind of man to turn on his own kin. The fact that Genji has no involvement within his family’s dealings, even going so far as to shirk all responsibilities, and yet he hasn't left Hanamura until now?

It means he has a reason to stick around, and Jesse's been paying enough attention to feel like he knows why.

What Jesse can't figure out is why Hanzo Shimada hasn't sent search parties out after his brother if they care so much about each other. Hanzo taking on their father's role should’ve put Genji in a more secure place within the grand scheme of things, not shaken him loose. Jesse's second-guessing everything thanks to Hanzo's reaction — or more accurately, his lack of one.

"If I was Hanzo Shimada, what would I do?" Jesse asks aloud, teething at the opening of his bottle, half-empty now.

It's a question he should be asking himself circa ten years ago. Jesse McCree, seventeen, sharpshooter prodigy, climbing up the Deadlock ladder too quick to know what to do about it, let alone to think twice. Jesse McCree, who would've shot Gabriel Reyes between the eyes for killing his gang; Jesse McCree, who tried to shoot Reyes anyway and ended up with his ribs broken in three places and a fractured wrist; Jesse McCree, on the ground, spitting on Reyes’ fancy military boots, taking aim again with his other hand.

That Jesse McCree would've pulled an ally close to protect them. _It's the only way t'live, t'get anythin' worthwhile! Out here, we're on our own, but Deadlock's always ours._

So long as Hanzo Shimada doesn't seem to give a damn about his brother, Jesse decides that he hasn't got a chance of getting inside his head, semi-comparable life experiences or not.

The issue still remains, though. If this thing was a solo gig, Jesse would already be out the door trying to scrape up relevant information that'd make for a good game plan to take the family down — but it's _not_ a solo gig, and Jesse has two people waiting on any scraps he can give.

Jesse sighs, already tired from the future's missed sleep. _No time like the present._

Jesse opens the sliding door, toes his shoes on, and then opens the next door, wooden and strong. The hotel that they've been placed in, called a _ryokan_ in the dossier, is a mix of traditional aesthetic and modern functionality; while each room bears the usual hinged door, there's a space between the entrance and the rest of the room to slip shoes off before opening a sliding door to reveal the rest of the living area. Hanamura is a city made up of history that borrows only bits and pieces from current times, as opposed to the other way around. Jesse, being who he is, can respect that.

Back at base, agents play with a touch panel to control the doors. Jesse figures the sliding doors they've got here aren't much different where it counts; they only require a second or two more movement to get anywhere.

He turns his head to the left — Amari's room. He turns his head to the right — Angela's room. Strictly speaking, he should speak with Amari first if he's taking seniority into the equation, but Jesse hasn't seen Angela in days outside of the occasional hello, so he turns right and moseys towards Angela's room.

Jesse raps his knuckles twice on the outer door, putting his ear up to it. "Is the doctor in?" he asks kindly through the wood.

There's a muffled _oh!_ and the sound of papers rustling before he hears Angela's response. "One second!"

Her accent gives the words a pleasant cadence, one that Jesse is terribly familiar with after countless moments of being injured in various ways on-base and off. He isn't so much a magnet for trouble as much as he _is_ the trouble, and it tends to bite him in the ass at the worst of times. There's been many a mission where Jesse's taken a hit for someone else or thrown himself into danger he _knew_ he could get out of, but at a cost to his own well-being. Sometimes his impulsive resourcefulness saves a mission; sometimes it saves lives. Either way, he's made a bad habit of it.

Besides, Jesse considers most anyone who jabs him with something sharp for his own good a friend.

The door in front of him opens to reveal Angela, her golden hair loose around her shoulders. She looks a bit frazzled, eyes a tad glassy, leaning against the side of the door with a tired smile.

"Howdy. Ain't busy, are you?" Jesse asks, brows coming together. "Don't want to interrupt nothin' important."

"I am never too busy for you. Come in, come in,"  Angela replies, ushering him inside. Jesse takes his shoes off again and goes; she follows, her hands rubbing together. "What can I do for you, Jesse?"

There's blueprints and articles scattered across Angela's floor; it seems she's pushed the futon to the furthest corner of the space to maximize her ability to strew things every which way. Jesse can't hardly understand anything the papers have on them, not only because most of them are in languages he can't read — but also because it's all way over his head, vocabulary and content both. He gives an appreciative gesture, a point and thumbs up, much to Angela's chagrin.

"Never too busy, huh?" Jesse says dubiously to her.

 _"Keine sorge._ It's nothing." Angela hand-waves his concerns away, walking over to her own fridge. "As I said, what can I do for you? Is your arm giving you trouble? We are at a different altitude than what you are used to, that may have some undocumented side-effects."

The mention of his arm has Jesse looking at the metal making up the lack of limb from his left elbow down. As far as he can tell, there hasn't been any issue — and besides that, he's been in worse conditions since getting it. Belarus last December had been a pain; the cold had done its damndest to lock his joint up. Reyes had nearly torn him a new one out of concern that had turned into anger. Once Jesse had explained the problem, Reyes' expression had settled on pensive worry. For a while after, it had seemed like the mechanical parts would get replaced with cybernetic ones or something that could more effectively regulate itself without outside help for fear of it complicating another op. Reyes had given Jesse the last word on the subject, so Jesse had kept the gears.  

"Naw, doc, it's fine," Jesse answers then, demonstrating the full angle of movement. Angela tuts in reply, though it isn't in disapproval. He continues: "Just wanted to let you know. I'm headin' out a little further than usual tonight. Been doin' recon regularly, need to loosen the net a smidge."

Angela isn't quite quick enough to stop the curiosity from flashing in her eyes. No matter how tired she is, she's sharp.

"Commander Morrison is ordering this?" she asks. The way she says it is carefully neutral. Jesse doesn't know whether it's neutral because she wants to know the truth or if it's neutral because half the time she disagrees with Morrison on nearly everything.

Jesse tongues at one of his canine teeth.

"Classified," Jesse finally says, apologetic.

"I joined a peacekeeping organization, Jesse." The rest of what she doesn't say goes something like _not a group that skulks around in the shadows threatening people so don't go skulking around in the shadows threatening people._ There's an edge to Angela's words that means she's annoyed with Morrison again.

Jesse wouldn't mind seeing her rip into Reyes sometime, but that's never going to happen.

"I ain't about to go startin' nothin'," Jesse says sincerely, and he really isn't, not _really_ , not if it goes _well;_ he adds with a bit more certainty: "I just wanted to let you know in case somethin' starts itself."

Angela gives him a pitying look.

"What?" asks Jesse.

"You are a catalyst, Jesse McCree." Angela sighs and shakes her head. "Please, be safe. Is Ms. Amari aware of your excursion?"

"She sure will be." Jesse leans forward and kisses the top of Angela's head; she swats at him without any real hostility. When he dances backwards, carefully avoiding the papers that litter the tatami floor, he's grinning. "Thank y'kindly for your time, angel."

He pauses once he's out of Angela's room, wondering what exactly he's going to tell Amari. She's not someone from which Jesse has to keep _most_ Blackwatch secrets, but she can't know _exactly_ what Reyes has told him to do. If Genji Shimada really does end up willingly joining their cause, Jesse's going to be in a heap of crap from all sides. Best to let her know everything she _can_ know, sooner rather than later. Ana Amari sees everything; Jesse would rather not be on the receiving end of her judgment.

He knocks on her door, ever a glutton for punishment.

"Heya," Jesse says when she comes into view; at the same time, Amari tells him, "Join me for tea, Jesse," in the kind of tone that means business.

Jesse can't say no. He'd lost the battle as soon as his knuckles had touched the door.

Out of politeness and a foreboding sense of _Amari-is-going-to-get-onto-me,_ Jesse takes off his hat as he walks into Amari's room. There's not a speck of mess; her rifle and Overwatch uniform are hidden somewhere out of sight, and any hint of what she may have been up to before Jesse came in is nonexistent. Amari's space is a stark contrast to the chaos of Angela's. The good doctor and all of her notes, writings, research, and articles had made for a jungle of paperwork nearly impossible to traverse. Jesse isn't stupid by any means — if he was, he never would've made it this long — but Angela's a damn genius, and he'll give her credit where it's due: nobody else could ever do her job to the degree that she does it.

Amari motions at him to take a seat at her table. Jesse sits on his feet with his knees drawn close and respectful, his hat dropped gently on the floor next to him. Amari cracks a smile finally, dispelling some of Jesse's nerves, and sits across from him so that she can prepare their tea.

"I spoke with Jack just now," Amari begins. Jesse nods, a minute tip of his head. "He had just finished speaking with Gabriel."

Amari is more than aware of the rules that govern Blackwatch to keep the covert division safely within Overwatch's shadow. She's not trying to get anything out of him that she's not allowed to know. He still shifts, though, wishing the conversation didn't already feel like a prelude to a scolding.

If Reyes had gotten the brunt of Jesse's anger and cynicism when Jesse had first been recruited out of the Deadlocks, Amari had received the desperation and loneliness. Jesse would be hard-pressed to answer if someone asked him whether he valued one over the other; the truth of it is that he values them both the same but in very different ways. While Reyes formed Jesse into something that could survive, Amari smoothed him over into someone who could live — necessity versus ability.

Amari pours the hot water from the teapot into the pitcher, watching to be certain the water does not spill a drop.

"Gabriel requested that Jack tell me to be on standby tonight," Amari continues. She empties the now-warm teapot of water into a small pitcher and levels her gaze on Jesse. "He could not give me specifics."

"Ain't got any for you," Jesse says, sheepish. Amari just sighs before placing the loose tea leaves in their small colander. They go into the teapot. "All I know is I'm headin' out again tonight, gonna try to catch one slippery ninja. Don't think nothin'll happen, but it's better safe than sorry."

"You are your commander's most trusted agent for good reason, Jesse," Amari says, her eyes crinkling just a bit at the corners in response to Jesse's slight shift of stance, the prouder set to his shoulders. Water follows, poured into the teapot to join the leaves. "As well as one of _mine_. I ask only that whatever you do, take care you do not forget the possible consequences."

"I hear you." Jesse rubs at his left arm, presses fingers just above the elbow to feel the way the metal connects to the joint. "I'll be in touch, keepin' you updated. Ain't about to leave you in the dark, that'd just be cruel of me."

"Of course." Amari pours the steeped tea from the teapot into the pitcher. The heat rises, visible in the air. "Fareeha called before we left, did I tell you? She's doing well. Everyone is very impressed by her capability."

"'Course they are," Jesse says, pride evident in his tone. "Like mother, like daughter."

 _If I am to join Overwatch one day,_ Fareeha had confided in him, _then I must start with something smaller._ She had shifted, giving away her nerves, but her chin had remained high. _I plan on enlisting in the Egyptian Army._

 _Goddamn, don't let your mama hear that talk,_ Jesse had exclaimed once he'd gotten over his surprise, and then he'd ruffled her hair fondly. _Knock 'em dead, sweetpea._

Amari hums and splits the tea into two cups, sliding one closer to Jesse for him to grab. He takes a deep inhale of the aroma — not bad. Nothing that makes him think he'll need to add something. Two raised eyebrows and an appreciative nod later, and Jesse blows gently on the liquid in an attempt to cool it.

She corrects him: "Drink it hot."

Jesse does; his eyes water at the heat from the gulp he manages. Once he's coughed his tongue free of any stinging, he grimaces. "I'm thinkin' I still prefer my tea iced and sweet."

Amari laughs, clearly unimpressed with his attempt, but Jesse eventually drinks the whole cup and gives his honest thanks to her.

"Go prepare, Jesse," Amari tells him. She takes a small sip of her own remaining tea. The room smells light and fresh. "You have a late night ahead of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _as of 9/14/16, some minor edits were made!_
> 
> apocryphic's twitter, where there is much yelling about this fic's process: [@irlwolves](http://twitter.com/irlwolves)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're interested in the song that inspired all of this fic, here: [gunmetal black by varien.](https://youtu.be/_tIM1JK1YpM)

_When in Rome,_ Jesse figures, decked out in his full attire from the brim of his hat to the spurs on his heels. Bootcut jeans and a white button-down could get a man through most trials and tribulations — Jesse would know.

He's headed to the outskirts of Hanamura, courtesy of several instructions from various, fleeting people, all of whom have been dressed in alarming colors with what he figures is some kind of cyberpunk motif — not that he's ever been _up-to-date_ with fashion. He's tempted to take to the rooftops for the third night in a row, but beating a ninja at a ninja game sounds next to impossible and, besides that, his calves still have a grudge against him. So he walks.

One girl, calling him gaijin in a tone he suspects is only half-interested in him, the other half in his hat, stops to ask if he knows where he's going, because he looks "very, very lost."

Good, lost is what he's aiming for.

"Not so much, darlin'," Jesse says, pulling out the old charm, letting it drench his voice. "Actually, I'm lookin' for someone in particular — I know he's somethin' of a local celebrity. I'm stayin' with him while I'm in town, y'see."

"Okay," says the girl, eyes widening at the mention of _celebrity._

Her friends whisper to each other excitedly. One of the guys (dark outfit, average height, truly impressive eyeliner) in their group looks Jesse over. Jesse briefly returns the _look_ with a cursory once-over of his own, giving back one raised brow before turning his attention to the girl again.

"His name's Shimada, Genji Shimada," Jesse begins, but the second that the name _Shimada_ is out of his mouth, everyone tenses. The girl is looking over her shoulder like she's scared someone might be sneaking up behind them; her friends crowd themselves backwards, away from Jesse, who is pronounced guilty by association. He tries to reel it back in. "Now, I know what you gotta be thinkin' —"

"I can help."

Jesse goes from looking pleadingly at the girl to staring in surprise at Eyeliner. He has a soft jawline to go with his slight smile; with all of the angles in the guy's look, it could almost catch someone off-guard.

Eyeliner's arms cross over his chest — the fella doesn't seem intimidated in the least, Jesse thinks, knowingly leading a stranger to someone that's from a particularly _infamous_ family. Jesse hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans in response. It feels like it could be a duel. Jesse's never balked at one before, he isn't about to start now.

"Appreciate it," Jesse decides, freeing one hand from the confines of his pockets to tip his hat. The rest of the group has trickled away, murmuring amongst themselves, enough so that Jesse can focus his attention on Eyeliner. "I ain't too familiar with the hotspots 'round these parts just yet."

"Genji-chan has thrown you to the wolves?" asks Eyeliner, sounding nearly scandalized. "Leaving his guest to wander the streets at night. What _must_ you think of his hospitality?" Distantly, Jesse hears someone stifle a giggle.

Eyeliner sounds like he knows a lot about 'hospitality' as far as Genji Shimada is concerned. Jesse laughs, playing along, and files the observation away for later review. If tonight ends up another fruitless venture, he might at least have a low-hanging _known associate_ for the boss to chew on in place of his ass. The moment passes, and Eyeliner motions for Jesse to follow him. Once they turn the corner, Jesse catches Eyeliner eyeing him — and trying to be sly about it, besides; he starts readying responses for the questions that loom on the horizon.

"You're close to Genji-chan?" Eyeliner starts. _Close_ means something different to him than it does to Jesse, if his tone is anything to go by.

"Oh, it ain't like that," Jesse says with ease as they walk. Lights around them paint the pavement brilliantly, pink and teal. Hanamura really is a sight to see; this far out from the Shimada Castle, things are less confined to tradition. The excited glow of the buildings seems to fight for dominance with the structure of the area, which remains somehow older in its simplicity. "I told him I didn't fancy headin' out tonight. Changed my mind a little too late, now he ain't answerin' his phone." He shrugs for emphasis. "Figures."

"He can be hard to reach," Eyeliner agrees. There's a complicated edge to the words.

"You've been friends with him a while?"

Thankfully, Eyeliner laughs, light and airy. "You could say that. He is… good company. I know his favorite places. He knows mine." The wave of Eyeliner's hand — nails painted black, Jesse notes — is dismissive. It matches the curve of his mouth. "We cross paths." His gaze slides to Jesse more openly. "We have our fun. We meet again another time. You won't find him at any of the so-called hotspots tonight. But it just so happens that _I_ know where he is."

"Lucky for me," Jesse replies, truly grateful.

"Lucky for you," Eyeliner echoes. The air of nonchalance continues when he says, "I know he has been busy lately. Catering to his guest, I suppose. He didn't tell you where he was going?"

"Didn't feel the need to, I'm supposin'." Jesse scuffs the toe of his boot against the sidewalk, kicking away a scrap of trash. "Wouldn't have any idea how to get there if he had, anyway."

Eyeliner hums. The complicated note is back when he goes on. "We had texted about hanging out tonight, but Genji-chan asked for a rain check. He said he had business to attend to."

Jesse senses he's being asked a question he can't answer and says nothing, wondering more and more at whether or not he’s truly made the right move. Though the promise is there, he doesn’t like his rapidly growing pile of bluffs. They continue on with Jesse a half-step ahead when Eyeliner stops short and snaps his fingers together as if he's forgotten something. Jesse, startled, turns his head.

"Ah, sorry!" Eyeliner says. His smile is unassuming, or embarrassed. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't, must've forgot in all the excitement." Jesse is sure to make it sound apologetic and forgetful, despite the internal breath he’d been holding. This lie is easy. "Name's John. Nice meetin' you, ah…"

"Maki Kenichi," Eyeliner says, pleased. He inclines his head and adds, a tad wryly, "Ken-kun to you."

Jesse hides his amusement behind another, more polite tip of his hat. Kenichi's smile widens.

Maybe if it were a personal visit, Jesse would have considered Kenichi a good opportunity for nightly company. He's perfectly attractive, clearly friendly, has a good sense of humor — all-around, not a bad option. But Jesse is John and John is looking for Genji Shimada so that _Jesse_ can find Genji and perhaps seduce him, figuratively, away from his family matters.

So Kenichi isn't on the table. It's a shame, but not enough of one for Jesse to think more than once.

As they walk, they fall into a rhythm, Kenichi asks Jesse how long he's been in Hanamura; Jesse lies and says a little over a week, thinking back to when Genji had originally disappeared. Kenichi asks what he's done so far, is he a student? Here, Kenichi lowers his voice: _are you a business partner?_ Jesse, neutral and without wavering, says simply that he's in Hanamura for a _lot_ of reasons, but none of them are extensive enough to really _dig into,_ if Ken-kun catches his drift. Kenichi does catch his drift, his expression shifting into understanding — and then mild curiosity.

Jesse wants to tell him to pick better friends than international criminals and their so-called business partners _,_ but he only smiles and asks Kenichi if he's always been in Hanamura.

Even while they talk, Jesse's paying attention to where he's being led. With no small amount of concern, the map of Hanamura he’s crafted in his head tells him that they seem to be doubling around, back to the Shimada Castle. Where Jesse's holster normally sits on his hip, there's no reassuring weight of Peacekeeper, and he knows the knife tucked into his boot isn't going to cut it if his new pal wants to lead him straight into a hornets' nest of yakuza. Jesse grimly imagines them waiting for the conspicuous cowboy in the room to make a formal misstep. No amount of Blackwatch training and sweet-talking would save him from that.

Relief washes over him as Kenichi's pace slows.

"Here we are," Kenichi announces, waving his hands outward with a flourish.

Jesse is surprised to see nothing but a small ramen shop. He peers through the window and isn't disappointed when he sees a streak of green on the other side of the glass. Genji Shimada is hard to miss at the counter, both because of his look and also because of the lack of patrons — there is _especially_ no one else sporting that particular shade of dye in their hair.

"Ah-ha! _There_ he is." Jesse claps Kenichi on the shoulder firmly, a farewell. "Much obliged, partner. I owe you one next time we run into each other out on the town, huh?"

Jesse doesn't look back, quickly placing himself between Kenichi and Genji’s approximate line of sight. He can feel Kenichi's bewildered stare boring into his spine as he heads towards the shop. It's curt as far as amiable goodbyes goes; Jesse doesn't mean to make an enemy of his tentative Shimada compass, but he simply can't risk Kenichi overhearing any of the conversation, no matter which direction it turns. Genji Shimada surely isn't going to greet Jesse like some kind of guest when they've never met.

There's a synthetic roll of bells as Jesse opens the door. It blends seamlessly with the bouncy music that settles faintly into the background, some blend of electronic and instrumental in the fairly slow building. This all only adds to the warmth that the shop exudes. The countertops are light, the floor a spotless white. Hanging plants are hooked near the entrance. All of the seats are at the counter, all of them stools.

Jesse much prefers this to the nightclub he'd been expecting, feeling the slightest knot of tension uncoil from his spine.

He slips into the seat next to his mark, barely brushing Genji's arm with his. Even without the preemptive notice, Genji is already more than aware of Jesse's presence, if the slight rise of his shoulders means anything — but Jesse doesn't make a move yet, instead leaning forward against the counter, pretending to  examine the menu. It isn't a challenge to look confused, considering he can't read a lick of it. When one of the cooks starts to come over, Jesse waves him off apologetically, making it clear that he's not ready to order.

He gives it minute and then drops his hat low, stealing a side-long glance. Genji's fingers are flying across his phone screen at a speed which Jesse, a man who prided himself on his ability to hightail it when the situation called, had never thought possible. Jesse catches a glimpse of his phone case, decorated with some kind of vintage cartoon character with spiky blonde hair. There are multiple empty bowls of ramen stacked in front of him, which Jesse counts, the final tally weighing in at three. He considers: so Genji has either been at the shop for a while or he eats about as fast as he texts. Jesse's still tentative, but he thinks it's safe to assume that at least the man doesn't mind him being there, seeing as that Genji has made no move one way or the other.

Jesse rolls it around a minute more before deciding the preamble has gone on long enough. He skims through some options in his head before settling on the old reliable.

"Howdy."

As if he'd been waiting, Genji goes to swivel without missing a beat but stops halfway, eyes widening a fraction. They flick over Jesse starting with his hat, then his facial hair, then the quarter of his belt buckle that the angle allows, eventually settling on the spurs that proudly adorn Jesse's boots. In response, Jesse schools his expression, angling for easy and inviting. He leans back in his chair, naturally inclined toward any opportunity to posture.

Genji's eyes travel back up Jesse's body more slowly the second time, but Jesse knows a thing or two about scrutinizing looks. If he didn't know any better he'd think it was admiring, but it quickly becomes clear that Genji's passing judgement — or, Jesse thinks, dissecting him.

Finally, Genji spins his seat around fully to lean against the counter, flicker quick, all at once bridging the gap between them.

"Yo," Genji says smoothly, lashes low.

Jesse can hear Reyes in his head now — _this isn't what I meant when I said get friendly with the locals, McCree._ He feels an edge of despair creeping but tamps it down, determined.

"Hope y'don't mind the company," Jesse goes on. His smile is crooked, lazy. "But you sure stand out in a crowd."

"And you do not?" Genji returns. His answering smile is blinding, all teeth. 

Jesse laughs under his breath because it's what he's supposed to do. A coy tip of his head to the left tells Genji he's open to the teasing, his words playful: "C'mon, now. I got your attention, didn't I?"

"Hmm." It's not a yes; it's not a no. Genji is only inches apart from him now, Jesse is careful to note. His knee is pressed to the side of Jesse's thigh, Jesse facing the counter, Genji facing him. Genji thoughtfully thumbs at his lower lip before pointing at Jesse with his pinky. "Are you a real cowboy, or do you only dress like one when you want attention?"

"It can't be both?" Jesse is vividly conscious of how the small, back-and-forth sway of Genji's spinning chair is pushing his knee into and away from Jesse's leg. Somewhere in the hyper-vigilant portion of his mind, he realizes Genji is moving in rhythm to the music. Still bouncy. Still a good fit. Maybe even a better fit now.

"That would depend." Genji's tone is breezy. His knee retreats. "Is it _my_ attention that you want?"

"Am I that obvious?" Knee, thigh.

"Only as much as you try not to be." The pressure lessens. Genji's eyes shine; Jesse's caught, on defense, rebuffing Genji's prodding with questions. "I have never met a _cowboy_ before."

"Ain't many around," Jesse agrees. This time, Jesse is the one to tilt his chair closer to meet Genji's smooth movements halfway. Genji's posture shifts to accommodate, as if now that the game has been returned, he expects Jesse to be the one making the moves. _Ah._ "What's your verdict?"

Genji reaches up; Jesse pauses, leery, to follow his hand as his nimble fingers pinch the brim of Jesse's hat. One dark eyebrow raises at him and Jesse realizes he's stopped moving; he rotates his chair enough to press his thigh into Genji's knee again.

"May I?" Genji says.

"You may indeed," Jesse says back, already feeling slightly outplayed.

Jesse tilts away again to regroup and watches Genji, who steals the hat, his gaze not leaving Jesse's as he places it on his own head — Jesse's thigh against Genji's knee — and flicks the brim higher. Genji looks for all the world like the cat that caught the canary, a fox in a henhouse.

"My verdict," Genji says slowly, the grin settling across his lips yet again, "remains to be seen, _partner_."

Jesse isn't fooled by Genji Shimada, but he's getting the distinct feeling that Genji Shimada isn't fooled by him either.

Thigh, knee.

Genji chuckles, an ecstatic little thing, at the baffled expression on Jesse's face. In truth, Jesse isn't terribly thrown; he's simply no stranger to giving people what they want to get a foot in the door.

"Aw, don't do me dirty like that, sweetheart," Jesse pleads, further indulgence, turning his chair completely to face Genji head-on. Genji resituates again, so easily that if Jesse hadn't been paying such close attention, he never would have noticed — Genji shifts so that both of his legs are between Jesse's, front of his knees resting on the edge of Jesse's seat while Jesse's legs splay on either side. It's devious, the casual way Genji makes himself at home in Jesse's space.

"I like this hat." The small lilt to Genji's voice tells Jesse that _he's_ noticed that _Jesse's_ noticed the ploy.

"'Fraid I can't split with it, unfortunately," Jesse says, leaning on the counter with an opposing grin.

Genji, first with a sulking frown and then with mischievous smile, peeks up at Jesse from beneath the brim. "There is no chance that you could be persuaded?"

"Hmm." Not a yes; not a no, tossing Genji's game right back at him. Jesse pretends to consider. He reaches out, tips the hat's angle a bit higher so Genji's coquettish attempt is ruined — until Genji compensates by nudging his own knee against the inside of Jesse's. Fox in a henhouse indeed; water slipping through Jesse's fingers. He marvels distantly at the shocking contrast — Genji’s green hair is very out of place against his hat’s familiar brown. "Don't reckon I could be, but I've half a mind to say yes for the hell of it."

There's a pause, both of them suddenly on equal ground, both of them seeking out another foothold.

A clatter of dishes interrupts their stalemate, Jesse glancing up purely out of reflex. Genji is already waiting when Jesse's attention returns; amusement at some joke that's out of Jesse's reach dances across Genji's face. He places the hat back on Jesse's head with a sly smile, his quick fingers lingering near Jesse's face only for a moment.

"What were you thinking of ordering?" Genji asks innocently, once he has his hands to himself.

 _Ain't that the question,_ Jesse thinks, before he says, "Wouldn't y'know it, I can't make heads or tails of the menu. Don't suppose you'd like to lend a hand?"

"Of course!" Genji taps a finger to his chin, once again a fox. "But first, I need an idea of what you like."

 _" Ooh,"_ Jesse croons. The reply clearly amuses Genji. "Why don't you recommend me somethin' _you_ think I'd like?"

His only reply is a glittering smile, as if asking Genji to order for him is the greatest gift he could have bestowed; Genji immediately turns to one of the people working and, with a simpering edge, sends a question the cook's way, who gives an enthusiastic response before brandishing a utensil with renewed vigor.

The phone left abandoned next to Genji's arm lights up and vibrates against the counter; if Genji hadn't been looking that way, maybe he would have missed it. Jesse watches as Genji snatches the phone up again and flicks his thumb across the screen, reading something quickly. Genji's expression shifts, a smooth change that's nearly imperceptible; he locks his phone again and places it on the counter, screen down, and Jesse is left in the dark.

Genji rotates his chair back around to face Jesse, complacent and satisfied. Jesse can't tell if it's because he's ordered him something acceptable or if it's because of the text.

"Should I even ask?" Jesse wonders aloud, looking harmlessly curious.

"You could thank me instead," Genji says. It's cheeky, double-edged: "I think I picked something that will suit your tastes."

Genji settles his chin back onto his hand, elbow perched on the countertop, watching Jesse like he might just be the strangest and most delightful form of entertainment that's ever fallen into his lap. If Jesse was a more clueless man, if Jesse truly didn't know what to expect, if Jesse wasn't here for a mission — Genji would be running circles around him.

Even so, Jesse still thinks Genji might be lapping him right about now.

"Well, in that case…" Jesse tips his hat, keeps his smile soft and enticing. "I'm mighty grateful."

There's a bowl placed in front of him that interrupts anything that Genji might want to say back to that, and Jesse gives a nod of thanks the cook's way. The ramen is thick, a variety of ingredients giving the milky color of the broth texture. It smells rich, some garlic, maybe ginger, something sweeter — at the top of the noodle pile sits what appears to be a cake of some kind. Jesse pokes at the green spiral in it with the provided spoon, glancing to Genji. The green is the same shade as his hair.

 _"Kamaboko,"_ Genji tells him, his teeth glinting as he then gestures to the entire bowl. "You will like it."

"You sound real sure of yourself there," Jesse says dubiously. Before trying the cake adorning the top, he dips the wide spoon into the broth and takes a sip of that. It's good, surprisingly so, and he drops a hand to the counter, palm flat, fingers splayed. _"Well,_ I'll be."

Genji is tracking his movements, his reactions, the curl of a smirk turning the edges of his mouth upwards. His phone goes off again, this time playing an enthusiastic pop song; Jesse stares at it with another spoonful partially to his mouth while Genji blinks in sudden recognition, the phone returning to his hand in a flash. Jesse gets a better look at the case — the cartoon character has what appears to be whiskers on either cheek and is posing passionately.

"Ah," Genji says, almost contrite. He seems to pout for a moment, his sigh coming off as disappointed while the phone and its case disappear into his pocket. "I must go. Forgive me, but I meant to be somewhere else by now."

"Oh?" Jesse sets the spoon down into the ramen, careful not to let it topple. His brain works, gears turning; he aims for lighthearted when he adds, "Whatever happened to bein' partners?"

The tilt to Genji's lips turns penitent while he takes a couple backward steps away from Jesse.

"Rain check? Oh, and your bill is taken care of already!" At Jesse's expression, Genji laughs, shoulders hitching upwards. "You may thank me by proving me right." The grin that appears is sharp and knowing. "I know what you like."

Jesse gives a great exhale and a pause, pointing a casual finger towards the still-warm bowl of ramen. "Can't argue with that."

Genji takes two more steps towards the door. A brief moment of consideration passes, as if he's trying to decide on something terribly critical; he's already whipped out a slip of paper from nowhere and is scribbling on it with a pen by the time Jesse has caught wind of the hesitation and rotated his chair all the way around.

Genji caps his pen and folds the paper into a neat square before sliding it across the counter towards Jesse. His eyes are gleaming.

"If you need someone to show you around Hanamura while you are visiting, call me."

Jesse unfolds the little note, studying the contents — white paper, shimmering ink; all the necessary digits are there, accompanied by a small heart at the very top right corner. He flicks his gaze back up to Genji. "In that case, I'd be mighty grateful... but I don't reckon I caught your name."

Genji purses his lips and looks Jesse over again. As he turns on a heel lazily, Genji waves back an unbothered hand at nothing and nowhere in particular, all of his movements languid like Jesse has just asked him what time it is on a Saturday.  

"I think you already know my name, cowboy-san," Genji tosses over his shoulder.

And then he slips out the door into the night, the chime of the bells playing nicely along with the music.

 

* * *

 

Not long after Genji disappears, there are stirrings from within the Shimada Castle, subtle shifts of people moving deeper in the premises. Jesse, eating the last of his complimentary order of noodles outside of the ramen shop, doesn't miss a thing. He savors his late dinner; the food really is good. Jesse's a bit rueful about it, though he can't decide if he's got predictable tastes or if Genji had made a lucky guess.

Handy that Genji had been so close, he thinks, eating the kamaboko. Handy that Genji reappeared when he did.  

Jesse knows Genji has business he's handling tonight. He was told by Kenichi; he saw Genji answer his phone with an uncanny urgency. With everything else, Genji had been lazy, unhurried. The way he had left the shop as if he was summoned, or reminded of something particularly time-sensitive — _well._

He tosses his throwaway container into the trash after stuffing one last bite into his mouth and starts his rounds to find some way into the castle.

It takes Jesse less than an hour to decide that he's shit out of luck. He's examined and reexamined every inch of the walls protecting the Shimada Castle. The place is a damn fortress. Jesse knows he's good, but he also knows that it's not something he can handle on his own. Taking down the Shimada-gumi is going to require far more than just an assault on their castle; the clan is a fully entrenched empire, a kingdom in their own right.

Jesse perches himself on one of the higher walkways between rooftops, squinting down at the empty roads below. Street lamps flicker, threatening to steal away the light, but Jesse figures if they haven't failed by now then they can stick it out a little longer while he has a smoke break.

He has the slip of paper in one of his front pockets. He thinks about what he's going to tell Reyes — _I got Genji Shimada's number and a pretty damn good chance of stealin' him away, but it might cost me some of my remaining virtue._

While fumbling out his lighter, Jesse comes to the conclusion that Reyes might just keel over laughing on the spot, Jesse having finally outdone himself.

Motion catches his eye. It takes him only a second to digest everything within the scene: five people coming out of the castle's gates, well-dressed, Shimada crest on their right shoulders, armed, must be guards; then, a single crate, laid carefully onto a hovering dolly. None of them are making a peep. If Jesse hadn't chosen the spot he's in, he never would have noticed them — or they would have noticed him first, and he'd have taken a bullet to the head. Next time Angela tells him to quit his bad habit, he has a good excuse to toss at her.

Jesse puts out the cigar swiftly and goes still, only reaching with deliberate slowness to undo the spurs on his boots, tucking them away. If he'd known he would be playing shadow tonight, he would have dressed for the occasion; as it is, he just has to make do. Jesse follows from the walkways overhead, sticking low so that he's out of sight each time one of the Shimada guards grow paranoid and sweep their gaze skyward. When they turn down a deep alley, Jesse's instinct says jump down and follow — his training says otherwise.

He at least looks before he leaps, swinging off of the platform and landing with care, one hand keeping his hat from flying off.

Neither his hearing nor his Japanese is good enough to understand the low voices floating his way from the end of the alley. Chancing a look around the corner, Jesse catches sight of a waiting van; a quick headcount also confirms that all of the guards are present — and more importantly, that the alley isn't a dead-end.

It's a very, very thin road, and if they manage to load the cargo and start driving, Jesse's going to lose the only lead he's got.

He takes stock of the situation: he doesn't have his gun, but he has the knife in his boot. There's five men, but the hotel is close. It would take ten minutes tops for backup to arrive, provided they're already geared. It's ten minutes he doesn't have.

Jesse presses the alert button on his communicator to send his location out to Angela and Amari and takes the blade out with a heavy exhale.

It's like breathing at this point —

The closest is about six feet yonder, facing away. Jesse notes the piece hanging unhidden against their side. He has to be _precise._ He moves with this purpose, grabs them roughly with one hand while raising the other. He slices through One's throat quicker than they can shout, nicking the gun before dropping them, his need for stealth done with. From there it's an instant comfort, an old dance; all he has to do is aim. Two, Three, Four and Five are done before they've realised what's happened, the rapid fire _pop-pop-pop-pop_ of the silenced muzzle a whisper between the buildings.

In the aftermath, all Jesse thinks is that Peacekeeper would have done it better.

He takes stock again, this time of himself. The blood he's wearing isn't his, all of it from poor unfortunate One. He'd gone clean through the artery but hadn't stepped away quick enough to avoid the spray; Jesse's left side is spattered red and warm, ruining his shirt.

He checks in while he bends down to search pockets, search guns; he finds some cash, cigarettes, full clips all around, and pockets it all for himself. _Much obliged._ "Y'all comin'?"

"Eight minutes." Ana's voice is clear over the channel. She takes an educated guess: "You found something?"

"Don't rush on my account," Jesse says absently. He more closely studies each of the bodies on the ground. Nothing special as far as weapons go — handguns and short swords. The swords Jesse doesn't think twice about, but the guns are standard, nothing cutting-edge like the Shimada-gumi would have access to.

It's bothering him. These were Shimada guys. They're decked out in the family's emblem. Jesse hadn't even broken a sweat taking them out. His head's not big enough to think it's because he's _that_ good. He _knows_ he's good, but —

He looks to the crate.

"What's the problem?" Amari again.

"Gimme two shakes," Jesse tells her.

"Four minutes," Angela says.

The crate is large; he doesn't bother pulling it off of the dolly since he's unsure of what's inside — it could be drugs, it could be weapons, it could even be a bomb. There's no need to go poking that bear more than strictly necessary.

The soft _whirr_ of the hover technology is disrupted as Jesse starts forcing it open, one foot braced on the dolly itself to keep himself from overextending. The top doesn't budge at first from his right hand. He swears and wrings out his wrist before trading off, clasping his metal fingers underneath the slight lip of the wood.

Angela's voice breaks into his buzzing frustration. "Two minutes."

Jesse wrenches the crate open, starts to step back to avoid any untimely explosions or anything equally nasty. He's raising the lid in front of his body as a makeshift shield when a flash of green catches his attention; he does a double take, looks down.

His heart nearly stops.

"Ho-lee _shit,"_ Jesse breathes.

A half-wrapped body lies inside, caked in blood and clearly unconscious, if not dead already. It isn't supposed to be this — he's been looking for a payload, something incriminating, something they can use against the Shimada-gumi, intel, _cartel,_ documents, drugs, weapons, _things._ This isn't that.

 _Isn't it, though?_ the Blackwatch part of him asks, cool and heavy, and isn't wrong.

Jesse swallows, reaches in, moves some of the covering to make damn sure — he checks for a pulse next and grows more disgusted when he finds the softest flutter of a heartbeat, faint as can be. Blood is sticky on his fingers when he draws away.

He raises his hand to his communicator, stomach twisting deep in his gut.

"I found Genji Shimada."  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apocryphic: we are definitely not going to have a daily update schedule, we just felt bad for the first chapter's lack of genji! as it turns out, this was actually all one chapter, and then it got too long for one so we split it, and then it got too long for two but we did it anyway.
> 
> gee: i'm sorry


	3. Chapter 3

When Jesse McCree was seventeen years old, Gabriel Reyes saved his life.

How Reyes had dragged him kicking and screaming out of a hole that should've only ended with him dead is only half the story. The other half is that Jesse would've gone on to get himself run out of Blackwatch without Reyes' confidence in him. He can remember sneering at the commander over how much he didn't want to be a pet project, how he couldn't stand any half-baked attempt at making the world a better place, how he didn't want Reyes to get any more damn commendations for rehabilitating some desert-ragged punk who could shoot _kinda good ._

He can remember Reyes' voice, unpitying, when he'd scoffed right back. _You think you're giving me a commendation right now? The only thing you're giving me is a headache_ _._ And then a hand, not for the first time, extended down towards an angry Jesse, flat on the training mat. _Get your ass off the floor. We have work to do._

None of this changed the fact that Jesse was given a choice that was never a choice to begin with. Prison or Blackwatch? Rusted bars or a gilded leash? Even at seventeen, grieving for himself and lashing out at anyone who looked at him twice, he wasn't stupid; ten years later and it's still a no-brainer. Of course Jesse packed away his old self and became what Blackwatch — what _Reyes_ — wanted him to be. Of course Jesse hasn't looked back since then. He wouldn't have survived otherwise.

Ultimately, there's no more thanks in Blackwatch than there would be in prison. Jesse's work does not exist — _Jesse_ hardly exists — but not existing is leagues better than being buried in a deep, dark pit, forgotten and miserable. Blackwatch has always only asked him to twist his ideals a little to make a prettier picture out of them. Point his gun at a different crowd, figure out what he couldn't say, learn how to obey when a man with a uniform told him what to do.

Taking a bullet for Commander Reyes is the least of what Jesse would do for the man.

The first time Reyes offered him a hand, Jesse could feel his heartbeat aching away in three of his twelve ribs, pounding pain through a haze of fear and rage. The first time Jesse took his hand, it wasn't what he wanted and it wasn't something he ever would have chosen, but he wanted the alternative less.

Jesse grew into his decision like a tailored hand-me-down that was already covered in dried blood and a bad smell, because that's what Blackwatch was and is and always will be: nasty, dirty, filthy. Practically custom-made for Jesse, a criminal, a murderer, infamous — and now, nonexistent.

There has never been a choice for him.

 

* * *

 

 

Genji Shimada is alive — with an iffy _mostly_ tacked on, and an even more hesitant _hopefully_ added onto that. Angela's with him in Zürich's medbay, working her magic. Amari is still in Hanamura, tying up loose ends, gathering and disposing of any trace they'd left behind. By the time she's finished, there will be no way to prove they were ever there. Jesse could make a sly comment on the _Blackwatch nature_ of it all, but considering there's a half-dead yakuza member in Overwatch's infirmary, he holds his tongue.

Commander Morrison's office is hosting Reyes and Jesse. Morrison himself is in his chair with his brows pinched tight in the middle of his forehead, a hand rubbing at his stubbled jaw; Reyes is leaning against the wall adjacent to Morrison's desk, the expression on his face the sort that Jesse knows comes before Reyes starts plucking at strings to see which trembles the most. Jesse's brain is jetlagged, his thoughts scattered, his weariness clear in the sweeping shadows underneath his eyes, heavy enough to feel.

Morrison says something that Jesse doesn't catch. He tunes back in.

"It's not unheard of," Reyes is saying back.

"He would have been the head of the family if his brother was killed," Morrison says. His thumb rasps over his chin before he sighs. "They'd treat him like just another — another, _what,_ an outsider?"

"A disgrace is a disgrace," Reyes says casually, but he's agitated, fingers flexing into the crook of his elbow when he crosses his arms over his chest.

"Ain't much honor in lookin' at a fella with his guts hangin' out," adds Jesse grimly. "Don't think he was much for followin' tradition anyway."

"That still doesn't explain why they'd handle it so…" Morrison circles a hand in the air, looks up at the ceiling like he can't find the right word to use.

"Brutally," Reyes supplies. Morrison's lips tilt downwards but the Overwatch commander doesn't argue.

"We were there two weeks and some days," Jesse says. They turn their attention back to him. "Genji hightailed it about halfway into the whole shebang. Didn't spot hide nor hair of him 'til just before I found him, uh..." Jesse frowns and, after a moment of deliberation, shrugs hopelessly. "Well, the way I found him."

"He left and went back," clarifies Morrison.

"Yessiree. Must've headed home right after we spoke."

Jesse notices the silent exchange — Morrison's eyes narrow towards Reyes: _was it your idea to have McCree make contact?_ Reyes' shoulders drop the tiniest bit in response but he meets the look without giving anything away, which means Jesse's in the clear. He lets his head loll back against the chair, hat going over his eyes. Neither the five minute shower he'd taken nor the couple hours of sleep he'd snatched up on the flight here had done much to combat his full-body exhaustion.

"If he survives, we'll have whatever information we need," Reyes muses. It's mainly directed at Morrison; Jesse relaxes, shuts his eyes.

"And more." Morrison's voice is reluctant. They're just talking to each other now. Jesse's fine with it, he doesn't want to move. A curious note slides into Morrison's next question: "Are you going to handle that?"

"Could be I don't have to do a damn thing." There's the sound of shifting around. Reyes is getting comfortable. "His family stuffed his mangled body in a crate without even checking if he was completely _taken care of._ He'll be angry. People lash out when they're angry."

While they talk, Jesse wonders vaguely if they'd had the same talk about him when he'd been picked up out of the dirt. He knows words like _liability_ had been thrown around — Reyes had told him as much. For a while, hearing it made Jesse more deliberately hopeless; why try if it didn't matter?

It was a long time before Jesse realized Reyes was telling him so that he'd do _better._ It was even longer before Jesse actually _wanted_ to do better, he'd been so full of spite and venom.

It's a stretch before Jesse realizes the murmur of discussion has paused. He cracks open an eye, looks first at Reyes and then at Morrison. Both of them are staring at him; Reyes wears an _almost_ smirk, Morrison something thoughtful.

"I wasn't asleep," Jesse claims quickly.

They share another glance. Jesse sits up completely again, ready to defend himself because _resting his eyes_ isn't the same thing as _sleeping,_ but he stills when Reyes flicks a hand at him to settle. Morrison doesn't notice the motion — or if he does, he chooses not to show it.

"Did Shimada seem against his family when you spoke with him?" Morrison asks.

Jesse's mouth twists uncomfortably.

"Not so much," he says, picking his words like a bird picks at seed. "Like I said, he was headin' back, so… whatever made him leave couldn't've been anythin' bad enough to keep him away."

Reyes' stare is intent on him. Jesse pretends not to notice until Reyes clears his throat and asks pointedly, "What else?"

"I got his number," Jesse confesses, and Reyes' instant bark of laughter drowns out Morrison's, "Okay, that's enough."

Jesse tips his head back again like he's allowing himself to bask in the amusement at his own expense. He takes his hat off, placing it in his lap, folding his fingers over it. Reyes is still laughing. Blackwatch polishes humor with an dirtied-up oil rag — it leaves it a little morbid, a lot tasteless.

 _"Shit,_ McCree," Reyes heaves out once he's finished, teeth flashing in a grin. "You can really pick 'em, kid."

"Yeah, yeah, glad to be of service," Jesse says, rolling his eyes and plucking his hat up again. He stands up. "So what's the plan? Genji Shimada ain't exactly the illegal contraband we were lookin' for."

Reyes' eyebrows go up. "Isn't he?"

The other shoe drops. It's the same thing Jesse had thought when he'd found the guy's body stashed in the crate. He follows the logical path that Reyes is laying out for him, feels it click into place, goes _ah_ under his breath. The facts are sliding into a firmer reality now that Jesse's tired mind has been jogged into working with him: Genji Shimada isn't a victim, Genji Shimada is an _asset ._

"You think he's gonna cooperate?" Jesse asks then, slightly dubious.

"Don't know." Reyes' arms are folded in front of him again. He looks sidelong at the other commander. "Why don't we ask him?"

"Once he's not unconscious, we will," Morrison says. It's the end of that.

Their voices fade again in the wake of Jesse's yawn. He scrubs his right hand over his jaw, rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, can't quite find balance enough for true comprehension. Reyes steps in with a sharp, "McCree," to get his attention. Reflexively, his spine straightens and his shoulders go back, snapping his attention taut.

"Go," Reyes tells him, a wry lift to the corner of his mouth. Jesse slumps once again, grateful. "I'll get more details out of you when you're not dead on your feet."

 

* * *

 

Jesse sleeps. He wakes up. He splits his time between finishing the write-ups detailing what exactly happened to saddle Overwatch with Genji Shimada and talking with Reyes and Morrison in-depth about where they're supposed to go from here. He makes himself at home. Eventually, he and Reyes will leave together, head back to Blackwatch's favored neck of the woods, and continue shoving all the blood and grime underneath the rug for Overwatch to walk over without getting their shoes dirty. That's how it always goes.  

The first half of the second day, Jesse effortlessly decimates two new Overwatch agents who challenge him in the firing range. The other half of the day he spends fixing their stances, correcting their aim, and handing over pointers. They listen, they improve. The fresh blood doesn't know _him,_ but they know who he's under, they know where he's come from. _Jesse McCree_ is a name that's still spoken with a strange hesitance on the Overwatch side of things.

He shoots a perfect score to show them how it's done. It's routine. It's clockwork.

By six in the morning on the third day, he's commandeered a seat in the dining area and confined himself to a corner that's just slightly on the outskirts of things. No one disturbs him, all of the other members busy collecting themselves before the day really kicks off. While he sips at his mostly-grounds, black-as-night coffee, Jesse flips through Japanese sites on his datapad, reading up with translated versions about anything that might be talking about Genji Shimada's disappearance.

He doesn't have to look long to confirm his suspicions. There's comments from individuals here and there, locally based within Hanamura, asking and wondering; forum posts and social media mention him here and there. There's precious little on official news websites. There's no missing persons reports. There are no articles. The only thing Jesse finds are brief, short snippets that are reporting on the ensuing, fleeting confusion; nothing at all is reporting on Genji's actual disappearance.

Jesse takes a sip of his bitter caffeine. He's not surprised that Genji Shimada has ceased to exist. He's only surprised that he didn't go out with more of a bang.

There's a chime from his tablet and a message notification — Reyes — shows up at the top of the screen, hiding a portion of the comments section he was scouring through. Jesse opens the message and frowns.

> _Meeting, conference room_

A second one arrives before he's even started typing out a response. He frowns harder.

> _You're already late._

Jesse takes his coffee, his bedhead, and his pride with him.

When he gets to the conference room, the door sliding shut almost silently behind him, Morrison is standing at the head of the clean, mirror-like table. Amari stands firmly next to him, giving Jesse a small tilt of her chin in greeting. He responds with a hat tip, managing to pull a smile out of her — she must have only just flown in, he's happy to see her back. Angela is already present, posture proper but looking down at the table like she's found something less than desirable in the crisp reflection.

Nobody else is there. The rest of the twenty-odd seats are empty. Jesse sips his coffee, resigned to having one hell of a meeting, and sits himself down across from Reyes. They swap cursory glances; it's close enough to a _hello_ that Jesse doesn't feel bad reclining and getting comfortable.

"Thank you for joining us, Agent McCree," Morrison says, unimpressed.

Jesse raises his coffee mug in a silent return. Morrison looks to the room as a whole, leaning forward to place the very tips of his fingers against the table like he's bracing himself.

"I'll make this brief, I know you're all in the middle of business," Morrison begins, and pointedly does not look at Jesse's coffee mug. "Genji Shimada has agreed to assist Overwatch in our efforts against the Shimada-gumi."

Jesse's eyebrows shoot up. He looks at Reyes and mouths, _You?_

Reyes doesn't give anything away, the downward quirk of his mouth being the only hint of a response.

"He'll make a full recovery under the care of Dr. Ziegler," Morrison continues with a gesture over to Angela, whose lips press together in reply. "Then he will go through the training necessary to become a full agent of Overwatch. I expect him to be treated respectfully, just like any other member." Under the overhead lights, the gray running through his hair is especially harsh. "Any questions?"

Jesse has plenty. He wonders how much he missed. "You ain't tellin' everybody else... why now?"

"For the moment, it only concerns those who were in Hanamura during the mission," Morrison says. "Once Agent Shimada is better able to handle the position he's in, I'll have this talk with everyone else."

An agent already. As far as Jesse knows, Genji's been medicated beyond simply being _out of it_ for the past three days that they've been here. Morrison might've caught him at a better time, but Jesse's seen the sorry state Genji's in up close, he can't imagine there's going to be _anything_ better for Genji for a while. Overwatch is moving fast. Either Genji's closer to being a lost cause than they all thought, or —

Angela interrupts his thoughts. "It will be a long time before he's on his feet." There's a diplomatic pressure to her words. Jesse is reminded of every time that she's told him to sit still before she sticks him with something.

"Of course. The Shimada operation is on hold until then," Morrison replies. It's meant to be reassuring, Jesse thinks. Instead, it only serves to make Angela stiffen before she gives a brusque nod. Morrison looks around the room again, clasping his hands together. "If that's that, dismissed."

Jesse stays seated as everyone else takes their leave, Angela slipping out the door first, the others filtering out after her. Reyes doesn't move until Jesse looks at him, only then seeming to mirror Jesse's settled, comfortable pose. The door slides shut and then it's just the two Blackwatch members left, sitting in a standoff, sitting in silence.

"Feeling any déjà vu?" Reyes asks after a handful of seconds. His voice is mild, his expression carefully interested.

"It ain't the same," Jesse says. He taps metal fingers on the side of his mug in an unperturbed rhythm.

"It's close enough."

"Naw." There's a pause. "He really ain't gonna be one of ours?"

Reyes puts both hands in the air just enough to get across his unconcern. "Overwatch op. Overwatch spoils."

"No shit?" Jesse blinks at him. "Overwatch's gettin' a yakuza member?"

"Says the punk from a gang." Reyes smirks.

Jesse snorts and says again, "Ain't the same."

He takes his half-empty coffee mug with him as he gets to his feet. Reyes' eyes track him but he makes no move to follow, simply sitting where he is, brooding and still; he points at Jesse after a second, and Jesse stops.

"I want you to stay here," Reyes says. His hand drops back to the table. Jesse nods. "Keep me filled in on what's being done with Shimada. Anything changes, I want to hear it from you first."

"Y'got it, boss." Jesse takes a couple backwards steps closer to the door. He measures the contemplative lean of Reyes' shoulders and pauses. "What're you thinkin'?"

Reyes presses a finger just beneath his lip. There's something scathing just below the surface of his gaze.

"Overwatch has its hands full," Reyes says, finally.

Jesse agrees. If it gets out that Overwatch has managed to finagle someone straight out of a known yakuza clan into its lineup, they're going to run into a whole mess of issues. People are going to want to know why. People are going to make demands. The rest of the Shimadas might even end up being on their asses. Overwatch isn't nearly as classified as Blackwatch; there's too much in the public eye. They've already got spotlights the size of entire nations on them.

Jesse backs up, thinks. Angela's got Genji in the portion of the medbay that no one ever sees, something about needing a space that's absolutely sterile. Genji's immune system is shot to hell. They can't risk an infection. He'd give up the ghost in the state he's in; thus, quarantined to the back of the medical lab. Jesse returns to the train of thought that had been interrupted during the meeting — Genji might die and leave them with nothing of use after all, or Morrison just doesn't want anyone else to know.

Blackwatch has always been the keeper of Overwatch's ugly secrets. Now, Overwatch has one of its own.

"I'll keep an eye out," Jesse promises, turning fully to continue out the door.

Behind him, he hears Reyes' chair creak in a slow movement, an easy lean. The door is just as pristine and reflective as the table. As it slides open to allow Jesse his exit, he catches a flash of Reyes watching him in the clean glass.  

On the way back to the kitchen, Jesse polishes off his coffee and rinses out the mug. The meeting hadn't lasted long, but the place is already quieter than it had been. The Swiss HQ is mainly Angela's stomping grounds, though Overwatch as a whole has certainly taken a liking to it over other bases in their charge, but that doesn't make it any less uniquely hers. The lab by itself makes up a huge portion of the base, boasting areas for research and treatment alike. Jesse doesn't come here often; he spends more of his time in outposts and safehouses than nice, polished headquarters. Truth be told, he's not terribly unhappy with Reyes telling him to stick around.

Jesse takes out his datapad and types a quick message.

> _busy?_

It takes a few minutes. Jesse idles around in circles, back and forth, until Angela sends back a reply. He huffs out a soft laugh when he reads it.

> _Where are you hurt?_

Her sense of humor is still alive and well, then. If Angela really was busy, she wouldn't have bothered replying to him in the first place. Jesse makes his way to the medical wing, sending a lazy salute towards one of the hotshots that'd tried outshooting him when they pass each other in the hall. She grins back, sunny now that she knows Jesse isn't just some untempered, violent mercenary getting by on Overwatch pay.

Reyes' voice echoes: _punk from a gang._

And again: _you'll never be_ anything _to them but Blackwatch._

The main, outer room in the infirmary is empty when Jesse pokes his head in. The floors are a clean white, walls softer. The light is dim — preserving energy and eyesight alike. He wanders briefly, glancing around, taking his time, finally heading towards Angela's office. The door is wide open already, so he steps halfway-in, turning to leave with a nonplussed expression until he spies her in the corner rather than at her desk, which looks like a paperwork avalanche waiting to happen.

Jesse knocks on the wall twice. "House call."

Angela is sitting in a plush chair with her knees pulled into the seat against her. Her forefinger and thumb pinch at her forehead, her brows drawn. She seems to take a moment to compose her expression before inhaling and looking up at Jesse. He takes it as permission and ambles over to perch on the arm of the chair, hand dropping heavily onto her shoulders.

"Anybody asked you lately how _you're_ feelin', doc?" he says, crooking a smile down to her.

She lets it all out in a frustrated sigh. "I would do everything I can to save him. If I can help it, I cannot let someone simply..." Her lips press together tightly when she shuts her mouth, fingers tapping in restless irritation on the other arm of the chair. Jesse stays quiet a moment longer and she folds, covering her face with her hand again.

"You're doin' your job," he says gently.

"I'm doing what I'm _told."_ She takes another steadying breath. "He has agreed to help. We are saving him. But we are saving him for what reason? How can I justify this? I would do it because it's what's _right_ — they would have me do it because it's useful."

Jesse chews on that, settling himself further. He tries to relate and comes up empty. His suggestion is going to fall flat — he can't tell her to do it because it's right _and_ because it's useful. Angela's ulterior motive goes as far as 'saving lives' and no further. That Overwatch — that _Morrison_ — wants her to keep Genji Shimada breathing for the specific reason of finally digging deep into the Shimada-gumi is an affront to everything for which she stands.

"Shimada told you he wants to live, right?" Jesse finally says. "That's how you justify it. Don't give a damn why he's agreed to the terms and conditions. The man wants to live, you help him live."

A moment hangs between them, heavy and conflicted. Once upon a time, Jesse remembers her having a similar kind of struggle on her face — neither of them even twenty yet, and she'd had to treat him for some misstep, some kind of too-quick mistake that had left him with a vital need for stitches in his side. _Ain't you a little young to be playin' doctor?_ he'd asked, suspicious. Angela had looked at him incredulously for a second and asked, _Aren't you a little young to be a felon?_

Angela drops her hand to rest on Jesse's and he gives her shoulder a fond pat. She stands with a sense of finality and Jesse watches the internal argument she has with herself, how her feet weigh heavy as she walks and how her fingers push raggedly through her hair before tying it back.

"Commander Morrison spoke with him first," Angela states, plain and unhurried. She begins leafing through the papers stacked on her desk. "I was present, checking to be sure he was stable. The commander asked him if he would be willing to help Overwatch _dismantle_ —" she pronounces it with no small amount of disdain "— the Shimada clan."

"Right."

Angela finds what she's looking for and slides the paper free from the rest. She takes a moment to open it, laying the sheet onto the free space on the desk and motioning Jesse over.

"It is not a matter of saving him, Jesse," Angela tells him while he studies the paper. He recognizes the schematics as one of the documents that Angela had been poring over while they'd been in Hanamura. An anatomical figure. Dimensions and measurements. "It is a matter of salvaging him."

Locations of nerve endings. A large diagram of a hand and each of the small bones that make up the fingers — joints, and angles of motion.

"I have to rebuild his body," Angela declares. It almost sounds like she's announcing a grocery list. _I have to pick up milk and eggs and, oh, I have to rebuild a dying man's body._

"Shit," manages Jesse.

"The equipment is all that's keeping him alive right now." Angela splits the rest of her papers up and begins reorganizing them so that they don't fall. Jesse thinks it might be more to keep herself busy than to keep her desk clean. "Nothing this extreme has ever been done, but I know that it's the only option, unless he wants to stay in my lab for the rest of his life. I am confident that the procedure will be a success."

"So that's what Morrison wants you to do?" Jesse asks, looking at Angela again. He can't help snorting. "Build the fella a whole new everythin'? Just another Tuesday for you, huh."

Angela's face shifts to frustration again, moving a stack aside so that she can cross her arms freely. "If it was only that, I would be overjoyed. This will change the world if Commander Morrison allows it. We have come a long way with artificial augmentations to the body." She _tsks._ "It is the next logical step."

"An artificial body." Jesse scratches at the nape of his neck, shaking his head slowly. "So what's the problem? Just that we gotta keep it a secret?"

"A large percentage will be supplementary rather than wholly _artificial,"_ she says absently. Her shoulders fall. "That it has to be kept a secret is one problem I can only hope is solved quickly. The other..." She doesn't quite look at Jesse as she manages the rest: "I'm building a body _and_ a weapon."

Angela building a weapon sounds about as believable as Torbjörn trading his expertise for a desk job and khakis. Jesse shoves his hands into his pockets and, finally understanding, says, "Well, damn."

As much as he knows Angela's against it, Jesse sees the reasoning behind it. They're going toe-to-toe with a goddamn criminal giant, of course they need every advantage they can get. He flexes his metal fingers against his leg — _a whole body,_ and more than that, a whole _weaponized_ body. _Hell._ No wonder Angela looks like she wants to march up to Morrison and hand in her resignation. She would never, though; Overwatch provides far too much reach for her. She'd always go to dangerous lengths to save someone.  

"Genji will be key to the operation," Angela says. Her hands linger once again on the papers. "He will be more than only an informant. Most likely, he will take lead throughout much of the mission. And to be of utmost _use,_ the parts of his body that I modify… I must make better suited to the cause."

"I'm sure he's got a helluva vendetta." Jesse reaches out, nudges Angela's shoulder with his knuckles like a reminder. "If anybody can get this done, it's you. You're savin' him. That's what matters."

"I tell myself the same thing." Angela spares him a small hint of a smile before tilting her head at the door. "Now go, unless you want to be my assistant for the day. I have work to do."

"I got plenty important things on my to-do list," Jesse defends, but he doesn't argue, already spinning on his heel to head out. He gives a lazy wave back at her as he goes, glad to hear her sigh in response.

He runs through it all while he leaves the doctor to her work, glancing at the door leading to where Genji's being kept on his way out.

Genji Shimada was only a means to an end not hardly a week ago. Now he's Overwatch, a secret, and a weapon-to-be along with that. An asset, nonexistent — dead to the world, save for a handful of people. It changes everything; Genji is the best shot they'll ever have at victory against the Shimadas. After a moment of thought, Jesse dips his hand in his pocket and pulls out the little strip of paper he's kept tucked there. The phone number is still scrawled clear as day aside from some smudging thanks to the folds. The paper is bent over the corner, leaving the heart hidden.

When he passes a trashcan, Jesse tosses the phone number into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apocryphic: sorry for the wait, i super messed up my wrist! i'm really hoping it doesn't turn out to be anything awful. FINGERS CROSSED. thank you so much for all of your comments, they're so sweet ;A; you guys are great, i'm honestly so happy this is being so well received.
> 
> also: this chapter is our love letter to angela ziegler (gee loves her the most).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * a little medical-stuff warning at a certain part of this chapter! for a specific point that you shouldn't read past, the line is "Jesse takes a moment to let him prepare." the end notes will have a quick summary of only what's necessary for what happens after that so you won't miss out on anything important.  
> 
> * this chapter's almost double the size of the usual ones, oops?

"Cylinder gap."

The drawled warning jolts the agent — Talia — into paying closer attention. She hooks her thumbs lower on the revolver instead. Jesse clicks his tongue, taps her shoulder lightly, makes her switch which thumb loops over the other. Better. A little nod and she aims, prepares, fires. The dummy in the distance gets a rubber bullet to the lower right of its abdomen. Talia prefers firearms without excess kick. She doesn't have to tell him so; Jesse reads it in her shoulders.

"Not bad," Jesse says, glancing sideways at her. "You just gave the guy an appendectomy."

Talia's been improving since that initial foray into Jesse's lax advisement only days after his arrival from Hanamura. She hadn't been the agent to challenge him on the firing range the first time, but she'd accompanied the one who had and promptly realized that Jesse McCree, only _half-_ Overwatch or not, was a damn good shot.

She's trying to expand her horizons, but Jesse's just killing time.

Zürich isn't as equipped as other bases for combat training — there's watchpoints with bigger firing ranges and _bots,_ for instance — but it does have a passable space with workable targets. It's all too _clean_ to house a six shooter, the base made for other, more refined flavors of violence. But it's a pretty place to practice, and definitely nicer than most arenas in which Jesse's held his gun. He takes great pride in the fact that Peacekeeper doesn't make for a perfect fit here.

Jesse steps up to bat and makes a show of it, raising his revolver all slow and deliberate at the furthest target more than sixty yards out, dragging his aim up, squinting one eye. The brim of his hat skates across the upper limit of his peripheral. Cylinder gap, thumb away, careful now, _fire —_

The shot appears, right between the eyes. Jesse nods to himself, acting as candid as can be. Talia, for all that she's been present every time _How to Shoot Revolvers Properly with Jesse McCree_ begins, seems just as amazed as every other time.

"You should use a scope sometime," Talia says when they're finished. She has her own work to do. Jesse's fine with that. "Hitting the shots you can? I can't imagine what it would be like, using a gun really meant for range."

"Aw," Jesse says, scoffing, his gloved fingers fondly patting the holster at his side. "That wasn't nothin'."

It isn't the first time someone's made the recommendation that he swap irons for a scope, but he's pretty sure it's the first time someone's said it without commenting on the rest of his getup; Talia can be allowed a point for that. Her Overwatch uniform is spotless and bright when they step into the sun. Jesse's outfit bears no blue to match.

She's not the only one to seek him out; there's others, too, though most aren't interested in only learning. They'd much prefer stealing the marksman crown off of Jesse's head, but if they try once then they don't try a second time.

That's alright. Jesse prefers the company of people who don't quit so easy anyway.

 

* * *

 

Genji Shimada is on Jesse's mind with a surprising frequency.

Late night trips to make himself coffee usually include reminiscence, provided Jesse isn't distracted by whatever he's reading on his datapad — and, more and more often, what he's reading has to do with Genji. It's strange to him that the Shimada could disappear entirely and there wouldn't be any discussion at length of it; for a local celebrity among _other things,_ he slipped into nonexistence with exceptional ease.

One night finds Jesse thinking on the brief interaction he'd had with him in Hanamura, the ease that Genji had displayed in playing the flirting game with him. It isn't like he hadn't known about Genji's reputation, especially among the nightlife. Jesse had done his research. The time spent watching the Shimadas had consisted of a lot of _listening_ as well, and it isn't difficult to recall the various things he'd heard about Genji Shimada in particular.

 _Outgoing —_ a people-person, a social butterfly; _Ken-kun_ specifically comes to mind. Despite the worry the others in Kenichi's group had displayed, clearly Genji was friendly enough. Hell, he'd seemed perfectly fine with the cook in the ramen shop, hadn't he?

 _Everywhere —_ nobody could argue against Genji's loud presence. Jesse would bet money on Genji being one of the sole reasons Hanamura even _has_ a nightlife.

 _Attractive —_ Genji's fingers closing quickly, pinching his hat, stealing it away, smirking with amused delight; thighs and knees; a fox's grin. Jesse pours a second cup of coffee without thinking too much further than that.

 _Rich —_ nothing to debate there. Blood money and drug trade made for healthy pockets.

 _Dangerous —_ from his last name to the simple way he'd invaded Jesse's space; how certain people backed away at the very mention of _Shimada;_ how Genji had moved right in front of Jesse and commanded his attention. Downright goddamn _threatening._

 _Yakuza —_ (ex-yakuza, now).

Hanzo Shimada, funnily enough, had never come up. Either people never saw him or people didn't want a target on their head.

Jesse stares down into the coffee that's little more than the consistency of gritty syrup when his thoughts turn. He doesn't have the phone number anymore, but _still —_

If Genji hadn't been done in by his family, Jesse would have called him the next day; if Jesse had called him the next day, he would have gone on whatever _tour_ Genji had offered; if they'd gone out together, Jesse knows he wouldn't have gone back to his own room that night. He takes a moment to fancy that idea. It's a bad one. But he fancies it for a moment anyway.

It's too easy to remember the way Genji's teeth had flashed in a bright, dangerous smile. It's even easier to remember the pressure of his knee. But it's easiest to remember his parting words.

_I think you already know my name._

Jesse's mug pauses halfway to his mouth. The odds of some stranger sliding into a seat next to a well-known yakuza member and clearly making a move are too high, that's too many coincidences. Any other American tourist wouldn't have picked up on Genji's identity simply from local gossip; there's no chance that Genji had been assuming Jesse would know him through the grapevine, _no_ damn chance, which means —

Grimly, Jesse takes a long drag of the coffee, the flavor a touch too bitter.

Genji Shimada had seen through him from the very start.

 

* * *

 

Torbjörn arrives. While he's getting settled and everyone is distracted with greeting him, Jesse takes a seat at a table outside in the cool weather, secluded and shaded, and calls Reyes. It's almost leisurely, their chat that happens before business does.

"Hey, boss."

The creak of Reyes' chair is faint in the background. "Get bored and blow anything up yet?"

"Hilarious, I ain't ever —"

"What about that op in Italy?"

"C'mon, Reyes, y'know that was for a distraction."

"You certainly looked happy with the fireworks."

Jesse scratches his jaw. "When in Rome."

All things considered, it's a quick conversation. Jesse passes on the news of Torbjörn's presence along with a summary of what Angela's told him: _weaponization, rebuilding him, some bullshit, secret, secret, secret._ Reyes is quiet. Jesse takes the time to sling his legs round the other side of his seat, middle of his back pressed against the side of the table. The sky is clear. Nice day.

"Don't get too comfortable, McCree," Reyes finally says, calm, as if he has a damn crystal ball. Jesse rolls his eyes, but knows what's really being said: _Stay on your toes._

Jesse doesn't see Reyes left in the dark often. He doesn't like it.

"Wouldn't dream of it, commander." Through one of the spotless glass walkways connecting the medical wing to the rest of the building, Jesse sees the flitting reflection of a bird; he turns his head to watch it fly. "Hey. You ever figure out that Cambodia mission?"

"The one I was planning on giving to you before the change of plans?" Reyes asks, rhetorical, dry. "I need someone suited for the work."

"Ain't nobody more suited than me," Jesse points out, no small hint of pride in his voice.

Jesse burns through the list of possible agents' names in the long, thoughtful pause that follows — Nikhita, Hale, Daria, Casey, Delgado, all one big, long _no._  It's a shame he's stuck in Switzerland. He's itching for something to do that isn't a whole lot of nothing. Jesse presses the heel of his right palm into his leg, flexes his left's fingers, communicator safe in his ear. His elbow hurts, the missing joint aching some kinda way that means he needs to go hang out with Angela. That, or maybe it'll rain soon. He hopes it storms.

"Unfortunately." Reyes sighs, heavy.

 

* * *

 

It's a relief when Amari starts joining him.

Their matches begin with Jesse-led banter and end with peaceful conversation, words taking priority over bullets. They pick times to meet when they know they'll have the place to themselves. Jesse's young hopefuls provide a decent way to pass time, but Ana Amari provides _entertainment,_ genuine enjoyment in the form of a real challenge and a true friend.

She's brought her biotic rifle when Jesse meets with her the third time that week.

"Thought that piece only saw the light of day for certain missions," Jesse comments, peering at the gun as she slides a gloved hand along the side of it.

The rifle is pretty, there's no doubt; sleek and precise, Jesse can admire a weapon deserving of it. He remembers Angela's distaste for the idea of a biotic _rifle._ She'd put her finger against the center of the blueprint and gone on about precedence and weaponization, how her intentions with her work had only ever always been to mend and never maim. Torbjörn's expertise with weaponry had brought the rifle from concept to reality. Putting a rifle of such an important caliber in the hands of a sniper like Ana Amari meant that it would be used to its full potential — and use it she has. Jesse doesn't know how many people Amari's aim has saved.

When Overwatch began turning the biotic technology against their enemies, Angela was only able to press her lips together and bite her tongue. Angela's frustration when telling him about Genji Shimada's situation comes to mind. _The next logical step,_ she'd called the process of rebuilding Genji's body — maybe the next step in more than one way, if the biotic rifle could be considered an inch and Genji Shimada considered a mile. History repeating itself.

"I would hate to get rusty," Amari says, glancing over to Jesse with a half-smile. Slashes scored into the side of her gun gleam. She told him once that it's a habit she keeps with all of her weapons _— a mark for a mark,_ murmured to him as she'd begun to line up her aim, solemn and still.

"I'd hate for you t'get rusty, too," Jesse replies honestly, taking Peacekeeper out and loading the cylinder.

She hums, amused. "There would be hefty consequences if _I_ were to miss a shot."

And today, she doesn't miss. Jesse doesn't either, but he's off-kilter on a couple targets, landing the victory in Amari's field. Jesse bows and kisses the back of her hand; she gives a fond tap to his shoulder and they move on to the next part of their meetings — tea.

It's raining as they walk through the hall towards the main stretch of the building again. Water runs in rivulets down the windows, distorting the image of the architecture on the other side. Thunder rumbles loud and deep, dragging a quick grin out of Jesse; the storm splitting the sky is the first thing to break Zürich's tranquility. It's possible that the soundproofing in the training area drowned out the sound of the downpour, but with how long it takes for the next peal of thunder to roll after the flash of lightning, Jesse doubts it, feeling like it's just begun. Amari might catch his reaction, but Jesse catches her smile in response.

Sitting down, she prepares the tea. Jesse takes his, gives a deep inhale, smells mint. Sometimes Amari makes him try new things, sometimes she brings her favorites. This seems to be an occasion for something tried and true, the light flavor just enough to pick at Jesse's memory. It's different than the green tea they'd shared in Hanamura, not so strong. He doesn't mind, adding sugar because Amari does, taking a sip and giving an appreciative sound.

"With how you brew your coffee, I never expect you to like Koshary tea," Amari comments. She adds milk to hers.

"Huh. Thought I'd had this one before. Was Fareeha here the last time?"

"She was." They both pause to drink. Amari finishes: "Though it's not her favorite. Or mine."

"Yeah?" Jesse takes his hat off, pushes fingers through his hair. "Why not pick another kinda tea then?"

Amari sighs, long-suffering. "I _had_ no other tea."

Jesse huffs a laugh and brings the cup to his mouth again. Another glance out the nearest window confirms that it's still storming; the angry thunder makes sure that it's known with a little more _bang_ and Jesse couldn't be happier.

"You enjoy storms," Amari says, effortless in the way she perches in her soft chair across from him.

"I enjoy it not bein' so damn peaceful."

"You'll appreciate peaceful, one day." She frowns, and then her own cup is eclipsing the lower portion of her face as she takes a long sip. "The weather is only getting worse. I may ask if there's been any word from the eco-Watchpoints soon."

Eco-Watchpoints — the new plan he hadn't heard about through Overwatch, but saw first on the news a couple years back. Jesse wonders if Reyes was even told at the time what they were doing with their plan to try and figure out what the hell's going on with the weather these days. Probably not, Jesse muses, considering climate change has nothing to do with executing dirty politicians all quiet-like or wiping up blood that won't ever exist on the record.

He tips his tea in silent cheers to his own sense of humor, sipping at it with his pinky out.

They go through the basics: talking more about Fareeha who still seems to impress at every turn, about Morrison inexplicably breaking his datapad for the fifth time, about long-ago missions that had led humanity to new hope. It's all Jesse can do to try and imagine it — he remembers enough of the Omnic Crisis to find the vague descriptions she gives unsettling but can't fathom much beyond that outside of sympathy pains at how she skirts certain subjects, though she does brush over King's Row, a ghost city with only bots left.

"Jack spent his twenty-seventh birthday there, you know. It was an ordeal within an ordeal within… well. You see where I'm going with this."

Jesse had spent _his_ twenty-seventh rigging undetectable remote explosives on a cliffside to cause an avalanche that eventually took out a small outlet of high-profile black market scavengers trying to make a profit off of omnic remains poached from the outskirts of Siberia. He scratches his jaw and pulls a face.

"Sounds like it was shit," he decides.

"It was unique."

Amari looks out at the rain, signaling the topic's end. Jesse follows her gaze, but then there's a quiet _ah_ from her, pulling his attention back.

"Gabriel has been gone for how long, now?" Her nose wrinkles a bit, as if either Reyes forgot to say goodbye or there's something else about him that's irking her. "Three weeks?" She narrows her eyes at Jesse. "You're not spending your leave here, are you?"

 _"Hell_ no!" Scandalized, Jesse puts his near-empty cup down onto the table and slaps both hands onto the tops of his denim-clad knees, leaning in. "I'd be a thousand miles away, runnin' circles 'round every other goddamn tourist's airline rewards program. Bet I'd have 'em all beat." Before she can ask the next question on the list, he shoots it down — "I ain't tradin' divisions, either."

Amari's got laughter in her eyes but she raises her brows. "Then you're here because…"

"Because," he says. Thunder booms. He sinks back into his seat again. "Just 'cause."

"I see." She gives a noncommittal noise, polishing off her tea. Jesse can feel her figuring out what exactly she wants to say. After a moment, she places her cup down and fixes him with a stare. "A word of advice, Jesse — continue to trust your instincts. You have sharp senses, as much as you like to hide them."

The next bolt of lightning illuminates the room, bright and quick. The rain pelts with all the more force; at this point, Jesse won't be surprised if it turns to hail.

"'Scuse me for sayin' so, ma'am." His grin is lopsided. "But I ain't hidin' much of nothin'."

 

* * *

 

For another two days, there's nothing to report to Reyes. Talia is sent off to another base, leaving Jesse without his best pupil. Amari has to go pull some press and media strings because Morrison's got too much on his plate. Jesse calls Fareeha; she doesn't answer, so he leaves a message saying she should bring some of her mom's favorite tea by next visit.

Torbjörn and Angela have been working almost nonstop together for the past three weeks. Jesse has no more time to kill. He can't stand waiting any longer, so he makes an executive decision.

It takes off-base coffee as a gift and saying-but-not-saying _orders_ for Angela to allow Jesse to join her the next time she goes to check on Genji. It also takes a trip through a decontamination chamber, promises of not touching anything, and vows to stay as far away as possible. Jesse leaves the chamber smelling sterilized. The crisp scent clings to him.

Genji's eyes are on him the second that he walks in.

Jesse's expecting Genji to recognize him. He's not expecting the flash of anger that follows.

The clear mask over the majority of Genji's face distorts the image, but Jesse can just make out the way his mouth twists. Scars criss-cross over his nose and cheeks; they still seem fresh, the biotics filtering in the chamber keeping Genji's skin from letting the scars settle completely. The lower half of his jaw appears to be metal, clearly unrefined, as if it's only a temporary replacement. From the neck-down, Genji is covered, but the blanket is twisted out of shape in certain places, hinting at the work being completed. Cords and wires pool out from under the sheets and attach to the various machines that fortify the space between Jesse and the rest of the room.

"Howdy." Jesse tips his head up, only a little. Friendly. Polite.

Genji's gaze turns steely.

Jesse is doing a poor job at not staring. His experience with hospitals before Overwatch was limited. The time spent in the infirmary after the slip-up that cost him his arm is blurred in his memory by painkillers, but he remembers the relief once he'd been given permission to stay in his quarters instead. More than that morbid fascination, though — he's drawing comparisons between the Genji in the ramen shop and the Genji in the hospital bed. The skin on his face that Jesse can see is wan. The top and sides of his head have wrappings wound around and around. Jesse can't see his hair, but he'd bet it's been shaved off.

"Dr. Ziegler," Genji says, sharp, looking to Angela. His voice sounds tinny. Jesse wonders if it's the mask or something else. He tears his gaze from Genji to look at Angela as well.

"Agent McCree is joining me briefly today," she explains, shoulders set. When Jesse tries to step further from the door, she holds a hand out next to him, halting his progress. The stern words after are clearly meant as a warning for him, even while directed towards Genji: "He will not disturb you."

Beneath the clear mask, it what remains of Genji's upper lip presses into the top of the metal jaw. "We are already acquainted," he says curtly.

Jesse feels Angela's attention move to him. He had given her the briefest version of events possible while on the flight to the base, but she'd been busy trying to keep Genji from dying. Now, she's clearly interested in hearing more, having taken note of Genji's tone. Jesse shakes his head minutely — _later,_ the motion says — and Angela walks over to Genji's bed, leaving Jesse to get friendly with the wall.

For a moment, the only sound is the equipment keeping Genji stable while Angela makes adjustments Jesse can't quite see on a screen. Jesse's view of Genji is blocked by her coat once she turns to the bed. She murmurs a question that gets an answer too quiet for Jesse to catch. He shifts his weight, unmoving from his place against the pristine wall, considering whether or not he should drag out the old conversation topics, like _you come here often?_ and _how's the weaponization comin' along?_

Genji beats him to the punch.

"Why are you here?" he demands.

Angela's posture turns stiff. Jesse blinks, decides it's a good enough question. He still can't see him, but at the very least they can talk while Angela acts as a barrier.

"Think it's well within my rights to check up on you," says Jesse, innocent.

Bad answer. "You think wrong."

"Reckon I don't," Jesse grinds out, taken aback. "I helped save your life, y'don't think that lends me some kinda investment in seein' how you're doin'?"

 _"Saved my life,"_ Genji repeats as if plucking at each syllable. His voice wavers, a strange wobble that doesn't have enough emotion for Jesse to identify. It's the cadence of it that's throwing him off, nearly sounding electronic. Not the mask, then — his throat? If Jesse could get a good look, maybe he could figure it out for sure, but Angela's still in the way.

 _Supplementary,_ she'd said. How much does she really have to replace?

"Well, you sure as shit ain't dead, are you?" Jesse makes it seem mild, but there's no denying the edge that matches Genji's tone.

"Agent McCree," Angela urges. She turns, fingers sliding away from where they'd rested lightly on the edge of Genji's bed.

The way she's moved gives Jesse a good, long look at Genji, who gives Jesse a good, long look back. It's a steady staring contest. Neither of them break it as Angela takes a step away from Genji's side and towards Jesse. He's too tense to drop his shoulders and force his muscles into something relaxed. With how Genji's staring him down, he feels like he's being challenged. It's not a great feeling to get from the half-assembled weapon-man in a hospital bed.

"Get out," Genji says.

Cool and calm, it sounds nearly like a threat. Jesse blinks. He still has the mental capacity to think about how he's lost the staring contest. "Now, just one second —"

_"Now."_

"I haven't said _anythin'_ that ain't true —"

"Agent McCree!"

Angela gets in front of him, a hand on his chest. Jesse stares at the doctor before he flicks his attention past her. Genji is glaring at him, furious as if he doesn't care to appear any differently now that Jesse's tried his last shred of patience, peeled off that last bit of facade. His scars twist _wrong_ with the sharp narrowing of his eyes, his lip pressed so tightly against metal.

Jesse's too wound up, stuck in place. Angela pushes him firmly back until he stumbles a step and then she's plugging in the code to open the door, Jesse leaving the second it opens if only because she's on his heels.

"I don't _care_ what orders you are under, Jesse," Angela says, all leashed frustration as soon as the door slides shut again behind them. "If you ever bother one of my patients so deeply again, _ogle_ at any of them, I will be the one to assure that you will never be allowed back. Regardless of who wants you here."

His jaw stays clenched for another beat before he bends. "Angie —"

"Do _not."_  She holds up her index finger, taking a deep breath. "Stay here. I will be back."

Angela goes. The few seconds that the door is open again allow Jesse one last look at Genji, who resolutely faces the opposite direction. Even from this distance, Jesse can see the too-quick rise and fall of where Genji's chest would be underneath the blanket.

Jesse's shoulders drop from their ready stance. The door shuts in his face.

 

* * *

 

His instincts are telling him that he could have done _much_ better. His instincts also sound a hell of a lot like Reyes' voice, which Jesse feels like he could definitely go without. He doesn't need Reyes telling him he's fucked up when he knows that just fine.

So the next day, Jesse goes back.

Angela takes one look at the coffee he brings with him and her wary frown immediately shifts to one of disappointment. "Jesse…"

"None of that," he soothes, gently depositing the cup into her hand and helping her close her fingers around the warm container firmly. Leaving his hand on top of hers in the hopes that she won't dump the hot coffee on his shoes, he goes on to plead his case. "I know what you're thinkin' —"

"That you made a fool of yourself in front of my traumatized, recovering patient yesterday and you wish to do the same again today?"

"Ouch." Jesse drops his loose hold on the coffee. She takes a sip. "I just wanna talk to him."

"Because that went well before," she says, her frown deepening.

As if he needs the reminder. "I'm more'n aware. Just — gimme some time with him, Angela." When she doesn't budge, he turns his drawl imploring. "Please."

She relents. Jesse promises to behave himself and calls her an _absolute angel._ Angela tuts, unmoved by his flattery. She leaves her coffee at her desk after downing at least half with no problem; Jesse tries not to appear impressed. They go through the same process as the day before and he's once again reminded of how much he dislikes smelling like biotics.

"Remember what I said," Angela murmurs as they reach the door.

"I'll be on my best behavior," Jesse promises.

This time Genji doesn't spare him so much as a glance. There's a soft humming coming from whatever machine is hooked up by wires that loop around and then run beneath the thin sheet over him.

"We got off on the wrong foot, I'm thinkin'," Jesse starts. Any snappy reply he's expecting doesn't come. He casts a glance at Angela, who simply brushes past him. "If it ain't too huge a stretch, I'd like to talk."

It's a lot of silence that he gets in return.

Jesse says, _ehhh._ "Well, how's about I just stand here 'n wait 'til you're ready?"

Genji's shoulders rise. Genji's shoulders fall. It's a heavy drop. Jesse doesn't know if it means he's agreeable or irked. Angela adjusts something, a beep sounds through the enclosed room, and Jesse keeps waiting. _People lash out when they're angry,_ Reyes had said. Jesse knows; Jesse spent the better part of his first year in Blackwatch angry. A lot of lashing out had happened, but so had a lot of second chances — and third chances, and fourth, and on, and _on..._

Jesse rolls his shoulders and leans until his upper back hits the wall. There's no extra chairs in here. He draws first, this time.

"Did you give Commander Morrison as much trouble as you're givin' me?"

Genji finally looks at him. Angela does the same, clearly displeased. Jesse chooses to keep his eyes on Genji, who doesn't have the capability of roughly handling him out the door and straight to a demotion.

"Just tryin' to figure out if you got a personal vendetta against me specifically or not." Jesse holds up two hands, defensive. "I like knowin' where I stand with people."

There's a long period of silence where Jesse thinks that Genji might be trying to figure out the best way to verbally flay his skin from his body. He's still having trouble connecting the man wrapped up in wires and scars to the man who'd leaned into his personal space and made him work to keep the upper hand. The subtle, razor-sharp perception is still there, but there is not quite as much grace to the way Genji fires back now.

"Agent McCree." The tone he takes with Jesse's name makes it sound like a curse. "What do you _want?"_

 _Progress,_ Jesse thinks, despite it all.

"Just to talk." Jesse settles back against the wall more completely, clearly not planning on moving now that Genji is throwing him a bone.

"No." There's a chill to the simple way Genji says it. Jesse's bluff has been called. "I mean, what do you _want._ From _me."_

Genji knows he's getting used by Overwatch and he thinks Jesse is just another Overwatch agent. It's only a little off the mark; Jesse's playing by another organization's rules but as far as Genji is concerned, isn't it all the same? _Goddamn,_ to think that the covert ops division isn't the group keeping the secret for once. Jesse tugs at one of his rolled up sleeves, biding his time. He's figuring out how to answer — he's not Reyes, he's not Morrison. He has nothing to leverage outside of the truth.

"Well," Jesse starts. "Answers. Motivations. Info. The usual. Don't guess that comes as much a surprise."  

To Jesse's surprise however, Genji laughs. It's an ugly sound, clipped and humorless as he turns his head away in apparent dismissal. _"The usual,"_ he mutters lowly, either to himself or to the wall. He says nothing else, does nothing else.

Jesse watches Angela do a poor job of pretending she isn't paying very, very close attention. When Genji still hasn't given a proper response, Jesse shrugs his shoulders up in a show of candid ease.

"Like I said." Jesse drops his shoulders. "Just to talk."

One of the machines begins ticking, much like a metronome, counting down before it hands off another dose of something or other. Angela stays quiet, her eyes on a screen, flicking through information with practiced fingers. Jesse picks apart his surroundings in lieu of watching either of the other people in the room too closely.

He counts only two blemishes on the near-perfect walls by the time Genji finally comes to a decision.

"Dr. Ziegler, I would like to speak with him alone."

Both of them look at Genji. Angela's hands stall and she opens her mouth. Closes it again. Turns to look at Jesse instead. He nods at her; this seems to do absolutely nothing to ease her worries, but after another few seconds where Genji doesn't take it back, she does begin to leave.

"You know how to reach me," Angela says over her shoulder to Genji, who tilts his head in the direction of the little remote attached to the side of his bed. Angela puts a hand on Jesse's arm on the way to the door, looking seriously at him. Her grip goes firm before she adds, hushed, "Do not put needless stress on him, Jesse. _Please."_

It's quiet once the door shuts behind her. Genji sizes Jesse up. Jesse takes his hat off and puts it against his chest, pursing his lips.

"Can you _talk_ now?" Genji asks. "Instead of wasting time."

Jesse wonders if he's ever going to be able to fool Genji _goddamn_ Shimada or if the man's always going to have him pegged. Genji's eyes glitter with a keen precision that Jesse takes as a dare and an invitation to stay a while; with his back still pressed to the wall, he slides down until he's sitting with his legs stretched out, hat on his lap, chin tipped away. Unbothered, transparent as can be, laying his cards out. If he can't hide anything, he'll hide nothing.

"I reckon so." Jesse taps his metal fingers against a thigh and gets right to it. "Hear you cut quite the deal."

"Perhaps," answers Genji, the single word laced with bitterness. "I was asked to cooperate."

Jesse wrinkles his nose, raises his brow. "So you think bein' turned into a livin' weapon is _cooperatin'?"_

"Do you have another member of my family up your sleeve? Anyone else you send would be no more than a lamb to slaughter. Useless."

The simple frankness is nothing short of brutal. Jesse's palm flattens out against his leg, fingers no longer restlessly tapping away. "Yeah," he agrees, thinking of how much time he spent trying to figure out a way of getting closer without being hacked to pieces. "I hear you. The Shimadas've got a good thing goin' for 'em."

Genji makes a noise. Jesse doesn't know what it means outside of sounding negative in general.

Jesse moves on. "You sure you're alright with killin' your family?"

It's a pointed question, and sure as hell isn't nice, but Jesse's not trying to be nice — Jesse's working at an angle, pressing and pushing to see what fires off an alarm. Angela might kill him if she ever finds out, but Genji hasn't kicked him out yet.

But _oh, boy,_ if looks could kill, Jesse would be flatlining right about now.

"If you helped to _save_ me," Genji says, flat, "then you have seen what they can do — and to someone who was one of them, at that." The rest is openly resentful: "I am no longer a Shimada."

Not a Shimada. Alright. Jesse isn't about to complain about hearing that, not when the idea of Genji going turncoat once set free has to be in everyone's mind, not just his.

"Fair." Jesse sighs, shifts his weight and gets to his feet. "Alright, doc's probably gettin' antsy, so how about this — I stop by again tomorrow, _you_ ask _me_ questions. Since I get the feelin' you ain't gonna see outta this room for a long while. Give a li'l, get a li'l."

Genji studies him like he's weighing his options. Jesse stays rooted in place until he gets an answer, plopping his hat back on his head. He doesn't miss the way Genji's gaze follows the motion.

"Overwatch is making many deals," Genji notes, gaze returning to Jesse's face.

"Maybe I ain't Overwatch."

It makes Genji pause for only a moment. Maybe it's mean to dangle something just out of reach of the guy who's been bedbound for weeks now, but Jesse isn't in the business of cutting corners. Genji hums. "I will see you tomorrow, Agent McCree," he says.

 

* * *

 

Two birds, one stone; Jesse has something to look forward to that'll take up at least a little of his plentiful time, and he's getting some _prime_ information. The only stumbling block is trusting Genji to tell him the truth.

So far, Jesse's pretty sure he hasn't been lied to, and it isn't as if Genji has anything to gain from lying. Ultimately, it doesn't matter whether or not Genji is on Overwatch's side; it only matters that he's happy enough to work with them to finish off the Shimadas. The way Genji had so easily claimed his disownment at least reinforces Jesse's confidence that it'll get done.

"We got half an hour," Jesse announces as he walks into the room the next day. After the door shuts, he amends, "Doctor's orders, not mine. Probably woulda been less, but I bribed her with coffee."

The friendly approach doesn't seem to do anything to sway Genji. Jesse's pleased to see a chair waiting in the room this time. He takes it, swings it around, sits with it backwards and his legs on either side; resting his arms over the top and propping his chin over them, he looks content as can be. Still, he's much closer to the door than he is Genji. The distance is all that keeps Jesse from trying to get a closer look at any progress that's been made.

"Overwatch accepts bribes?" Genji asks. His voice gives nothing away.

Jesse is _almost_ completely certain that it's a joke, but with the lack of inflection, he's not sure. "Yeah, well." His shoulders hitch up. "Desperate times."

"Of course." Genji's smooth about it, sliding right into what Jesse promised him: getting answers. "I will be an agent."

"First comes the trainin', but you'd be right."

Genji cants his chin. It gives Jesse his first half-decent look at his throat and yeah, there's a small device there, tucked just on top of his larynx. So the voice thing isn't a matter of the mask. Jesse's briefly amused by his own curiosity. Genji interrupts him from asking about it. "If you are not Overwatch, did you have to go through this training?"

Figures that he'd come back to that. Clever, how he swung the conversation around to it. "With some exceptions 'n additions, but I sure did." Jesse straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest. "Off the record, I'm Overwatch _and_ Blackwatch."

"And that is?"

"A secret."

 _"I_ am a secret."

"Yeah, you are." Jesse takes note of the minute change to how Genji holds his shoulders. So he hadn't known for sure that he was being kept under lock and key and was trying to get Jesse to confirm. "Hey. How 'bout you actually ask questions you want the answers to? Thought we had an agreement."

If Genji is flustered at being called out, it doesn't show in the least. He just sounds scathing. "You think I trust you?"

"I think I'm the best bet you got at gettin' anythin' straight, outside of Doctor Ziegler."

"Ah." Genji's lip curls in what Jesse's beginning to recognize as a toss-up between contempt and frustration. This time, Jesse leans on thinking it's the former. "I am not convinced."

"Guess I'm just gonna have to try harder, then." Jesse leans his chest into the back of the chair again, returning to his original, casual position.

Genji asks a few more questions, things that are and aren't irrelevant. When he asks about the location of the base, Jesse's fully aware he already knows (Angela's had to have told him) but tells him he's in Zürich anyway; the follow-up question is about customs on-base for upcoming holidays, asking without asking how much time has passed. Jesse tells Genji the date instead and even though the surprise is hidden away somewhere Jesse can't see, the seconds-too-long lull in the conversation is enough to give it away. So Jesse goes on: _You've been here a li'l over three weeks._

Jesse's a little surprised when Genji eventually asks for his full name. "You have always known mine," he reasons, the waver to his voice drawing some of the words out. "Don't you think I should know yours?"

Jesse takes off his hat out of habitual politeness and introduces himself. "Jesse McCree, at your service." It burns Jesse a little that he doesn't seem impressed.

The half-hour goes by too fast. Jesse rights the chair's direction when he stands and gives Genji a lazy salute. "You wantin' to continue this setup we got?"

"Make it an hour tomorrow," Genji replies.

 

* * *

 

They make a habit of it.

Some days are shorter than others. Some days they don't talk at all, whether it's because Genji's not in the mood or because he's had another graft or operation done that's knocked him out of his head for hours or more. But they keep at it — Genji asks questions and Jesse answers; Jesse asks questions and Genji answers. They get more direct as time goes on, but still. Some things are left untouched.

Genji does not ask about Blackwatch or anything truly personal.

Jesse does not ask about what exactly marked Genji for a dead man or what would have happened if they'd gone on that tour.

(He knows what would have happened.)  

There's a small, rectangular window with a cover that slides open and shut on the door leading to Genji's room. Jesse's pretty sure it's meant to be for observation of some kind; it's always open while he's visiting Genji after those first couple of times. Jesse doesn't know how often Angela sneaks past to check on them. Genji never gives away whether or not she's looking; his eyes always stay on Jesse or other parts of the room.

Sometimes, the questions are closer to home than others. The worst that happens when Jesse asks the wrong question is Genji telling him to leave, and Jesse almost always comes back the next day. Sometimes Genji's questions bring Jesse up short, make him have to work for a good enough answer that'll satisfy the both of them, all while not giving things away that he shouldn't.

One day, Genji asks, "Is there anyone else like me?"

Jesse thinks about himself and says, "Naw, not really."

The changes happen in bits, pieces, and parts. Jesse sometimes points something or another out; sometimes, he asks what Angela's done last. There's times when Angela refuses to let Jesse visit, and when he's finally allowed back again, something is obviously different.

In the span of a few days, the usual coverings around Genji's head are replaced with a prosthetic jaw — _headpiece,_ Jesse corrects — that extends to either side and up. The clear mask is still there, but fitted funny; clearly, it isn't made for someone in Genji's situation. His hair is gone; Jesse wonders if that bothers Genji any, considering the previous work that had gone into keeping his hair unique.

Weeks later and Genji's arms are no longer kept beneath the sheet. His arms seem to be made of a dark, woven fiber. It's not all metal. Jesse stares at Genji's hands for longer than necessary. They don't look like what Jesse's been fitted with; Genji's fingers are smoother, the plating curved in a more elegant way than the squared-off angles of Jesse's prosthetic. Genji does an excellent job of not moving at all if he can help it.

Over time, Jesse moves the chair closer to Genji's bed to make conversation easier. Angela gives him the all-clear. Genji doesn't protest. Jesse doesn't get within arms reach, but it's worlds better than being stuck against a wall.

Jesse keeps bringing Angela coffee. Angela keeps accepting it. They have a pact that neither of them mention aloud.

It's close to routine. Either way, it beats schooling rookies.

 

* * *

 

It's an innocent enough question.

"What about your brother?" Jesse asks, as if this isn't the first time they've brushed _this_ specific subject, as if they've talked casually about Hanzo Shimada on plenty of occasions. They haven't, though. Jesse's always skirted the line. Genji's always told him to leave if things get too close to the mark.

All of the air in the room seems to disappear. Genji's ruined brows come together, all emotion save for a building fury wiped from his face. The soft whistle of one of the machines is all that Jesse hears for a moment, neither of them daring to breathe — Jesse, for fear of startling a cornered animal; Genji, for what, Jesse can't tell.

He takes a moment to let Genji prepare. They both know Jesse's going to push the envelope. He can't not. It wasn't really that innocent a question anyway.

"So Hanzo did it," Jesse says. He doesn't need to ask. Genji knows he knew that already. _Everyone_ knows that Hanzo Shimada would have been the one to cut his brother down.

Genji doesn't say anything in response, just seems to struggle to school his lungs into working with him. So Jesse presses, "I mean, I figured. He's the boss, right?" He's reminded of the first time that he tried to speak with Genji. He's getting a similar silent treatment now, and it piques him a little. They've made progress, they've been getting along (mostly) _fine,_ things have been easier; one question shouldn't undo all of that. Jesse simmers.

"Even if he wasn't the one t'do it, he must've made the call —"

Genji grips the short, solid barrier on the side of his bed and gives a shaky gasp like he's just remembered he still needs to breathe. There's a painful edge to it, a stutter that betrays the effort he's putting into trying to keep it together.

Jesse stands up in increments. He doesn't like the noise the machine closest to Genji is making, doesn't like the tentative tremble of a sound coming from one of the monitors. He doesn't like how Genji's pressing himself back into the mattress.  

He doesn't like any damn bit of it.

"Hey, Genji —"    

 _"Fuck you,"_ Genji spits, loud and angry, a wobbly crackle to it, deep in his chest.

Jesse hardly notices how his own mouth drops open in surprise at the force behind the simple two words. Genji can't even get air into his broken body, and yet. His next desperate inhale is interrupted by a burst of wet coughs. Jesse's there the second that Genji tries to reach for the remote on the side of the bed and presses the button before he can.

Genji looks up, his eyes shining, teeth gritted together in outrage. Jesse stares back down at him, scrambling for words, but all that comes out is, "The _hell_ did he do to you?"

Genji goes eerily still as something in him _bursts._ Jesse feels it bleeding into the air a second before he sees it flash in Genji’s dark eyes and two seconds before Genji full-on lunges at him. He doesn't think, his instincts instantly taking the reins, and steps backward — it's only a step, but it's enough. Genji’s hands glint something vicious in the overhead lights and miss narrowly, closing around the space where Jesse's throat just was.

Every machine connected to Genji is shrieking now. Jesse can hear it all with the remoteness of a man watching an accident happen from some faraway, safe distance. Some of the machines let out a shrill whine as their lines strain and snap, while the majority teeter precariously on their stands as they're forcibly dragged out of place, effectively holding Genji back. Whatever impossible strength he'd found is gone, snuffed out by its own backlash. He falls back to the bed with a sob, breath coming harsher than ever, his hands moving desperately to clutch at his own face, his own throat. Jesse doesn't think Genji even recognizes that he's there anymore.  

It must only be a matter of seconds before Angela rushes in. Jesse doesn't have to be asked to leave; he slips out as she brushes past. The door shuts, cutting off the cacophony of noise: the alarms from the tech that can't do anything on its own, Genji's heaving attempts to get air into lungs like he's drowning.

Jesse steals a glance through the still-open observation window, watching as Genji wrenches his head to the side and back again. His jaw moves quickly, mouth forming fast, harsh words to Angela that Jesse can't hear. He's not sure he could even make sense of them if he _could_ hear them. Genji jolts in another fit, chokes and heaves and sobs —

His stomach twists and he looks away.

_Bad instincts._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * if you skipped the medical stuff: genji had a panic attack in response to jesse pushing him to talk about hanzo and tried to launch himself at jesse, but was kept back by the various cords and wires hooking him up to the machines. angela rushed in because jesse hit the button on the remote to alert her before genji could, and jesse was locked out of the room.  
> 
> * realistically, angela should DEFINITELY have some people working with her but the nature of genji's existence means that's not quite possible yet. so, suspension of disbelief, yay!  
> 
> * thank you to alfheimr/spacecaptainz for explaining the concept of an electrolarynx to us, which jesse never comments on by name due to his limited medical knowledge. with overwatch tech as advanced as it is, we assumed it would be safe to make it a lil bit fancier… as well as a few other things.  
> 
> * shoutout to archedes for writing [god killer](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7433597/chapters/16886037), our favorite r76 fic and also where jack has his 27th birthday in king's row. ;)
> 
> sorry for how long this chapter took! life and carpal tunnel and rewriting this chapter happened. we hope the wait was worth it.
> 
> if you wanna follow us to hear about gb updates and other foolish business, follow [@irlwolves](https://twitter.com/irlwolves) (apocryphic) and [@irlharpy](https://twitter.com/irlharpy) (gee) on twitter! o7


	5. Interlude

Hanzo's dragons were given to him in pieces.

The tattoo — traditional, the only way it can be done for a Shimada — began at his shoulder and spread outward like ripples in a pond, a new addition for each achievement in the family's name. The design speaks for itself: only they are permitted to wield the tattoos they wear as weapons. The tattoos are as much a tradition as they are a warning.

Hanzo remembers controlling his breaths, not letting a sound escape, keeping every muscle in his body absolutely still. He remembers choosing his own quiet over focusing on the pain. He remembers never once showing his discomfort on his face, and only speaking when spoken to. He remembers keeping his chin high while his arm slowly took on more and more color, complex designs, all coiling scales and rising clouds.

There are precious few things in the world that Hanzo has loved, but Hanzo remembers loving the tattoo and the dragon that slowly made itself known to him, his skin itself becoming a proving ground.

Genji disappeared the day that he was meant to begin the process himself. It was expected that he would be late; it was not foreseen that he would neglect to show up at all. Though none of the family was particularly surprised, it did not mean that they were happy. Genji did not suddenly reappear to explain himself (a small part of Hanzo hoped he would), nor did he show up even hours afterwards.

It wasn't until the small hours of the morning that Genji crept back onto the grounds of their home, smelling heavily of smoke and drink. He slipped past Hanzo's weighty stare with nothing more than a half-wave; it wasn't until weeks later that Hanzo discovered Genji had chosen to get a different tattoo for himself, one bare of both dragons and crests.

 _What will they say, Genji?_ Hanzo asked in abject distaste when Genji smirked and revealed the kanji between his ribs, _god of war_ in black ink. Tacky, Hanzo thought, despite himself. Predictable.

 _Less than you,_ Genji replied, and though his voice was light, there was an edge to the way he carried himself that showed his acute awareness of what he'd done.

Hanzo clings fiercely to that memory — perhaps because it was the worst of Genji's rebellions. There was little more he could do to prove that he wanted nothing of their family than to shirk a tradition that ran so deep and so permanent.

When the elders discovered the depth of Genji's scorn, their father did nothing. When Genji continued to spurn his duty, still, their father did nothing.

And then their father died doing nothing. It was sudden. It was unexpected.

As he walks, Hanzo skims his feet to avoid clicking his metal soles against the ground for how objectively _wrong_ the sound is to him. His gait is not as even as it used to be; his pace is broken by a new balance unused to the different weight his ankles bear. He must meet with the clan elders soon. It will take him longer to get there — he has to go the long way. No one has yet replaced what was damaged within the Castle from the fight. Hanzo, with something roiling in the pit of his gut, does not want to see it.

Pink blossoms dance from the trees down to him as he skirts the room and chooses the scenic path. Another memory falls in line: Genji's single sprig of purple flowers stood out starkly when placed among the bundles of other, more subdued petals that circled their father's shoulders in death. Both Hanzo and Genji wore matching black suits. It was the first day in a long string of days that Hanzo had not found a reason to scold his brother for something.

The near-peace did not last. Hardly two months, and the elders demanded action. _It must be done. This cannot be tolerated any longer. You must prove yourself more than your father before you._ Hanzo's tongue, stuck and silent, and then his promise — _I will not falter._

He should have known then what the outcome would be, trying again to convince Genji to give up his foolishness and join their family in their business, in their work, in their tradition. Genji had always fallen short of expectations, had always had the luxury to; Hanzo should not have expected anything different from his own demands when their father had never managed to so much as bend Genji's disobedient will.

Hanzo, urging: _We could rule an empire together._ And Genji, dismissive: _That is what_ you _want._

Hanzo, with building rage, exiled him. It would have succeeded, it would have smoothed everything as it needed to be — but Genji _returned_ , not even a week later.

Placating and sheepish and easy, all written across Genji's face as he met Hanzo in his quarters, a bottle in hand, proof of goodwill — and Hanzo, angry, startled, disrespected, rising to his feet. There was never a choice for him, but for Genji there had _always_ been a choice, and he had chosen wrong time and time again.

_I told you not to come home, Genji._

Genji's expression had faltered. _Never speak a word, never show my face,_ he'd said, thin-lipped and dour. _Yes, I recall. I only wished to settle things between us before I do, brother._

_They are settled._

_Why are you always like this?!_ Genji's anger had been the sort that Hanzo had recognized, sparks in his eyes and on his tongue. He saw it reflected back at him every day whenever he looked in a mirror.

There had not been a plan or thought then. Hanzo lashed out first; Genji fought back. The bottle shattering across the floor was hardly a distraction for either of them. Genji needed to _leave_ , this was his home no longer, and yet he was so insistent on returning, always returning, to the place he had not once _ever_ cared for. Hanzo made it clear that he was not welcome and he was making it clear again, but Genji would not balk, and Hanzo would not give in.

Hanzo prides himself on his control — control over his breathing, control over his business, control over those for which he is responsible. Yet he felt no control in the moments after Genji's blade found his legs, and there was no control in the moments before he struck the last blow.

Hanzo's heel scuffs along an uneven rock in his next step. The sharp sound is nothing like the sibilant drag of a blade being unsheathed, nor is it the same clash of swords falling on each other, but his breath still hisses out of his lungs, between his teeth, as if it is all the same.

Hanzo's dragons took his brother apart in pieces.

 

* * *

 

_When you have reached this point, will it not mean that you are invincible?_

— Miyamoto Musashi, from 五輪書 ( _The Book of Five Rings_ ) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hanzo "plot device" shimada
> 
> and hey! if you're reading this while it's a FRESH NEW UPDATE, don't forget to click the next chapter too! it's a double update. you're welcome


	6. Chapter 6

"The weather's —"

"Let me guess." Reyes places his datapad on the table between them. " _Mighty fine_."

Jesse sucks in a slow breath between his teeth. "I was goin' to say total shit."

They're seated beneath an overhang adjacent to a quiet little restaurant, but it doesn't stop the odd burst of rain from managing somehow to soak Jesse's shoulder. Reyes, further away from the edge that is currently Jesse's undoing, has remained completely dry and seems content to stay that way. Jesse takes a bite of his sandwich and makes a face when he leans into the back of his chair only to discover the majority of his shirt is wet.

"I wanna switch seats," Jesse says. Reyes snorts.

The scattered remnants of the scavenger group in Siberia that Jesse _almost_ took care of last year have been playing a tired game of cross country hide and seek. For the past six months, Jesse and Reyes have managed to chase down and mop up all of them, save for one. The ringleader — Tommy Wilds — has found his corner on the market in Cambodia, and if his boldness is anything to go by, he's in no short supply of omnic parts to sell. Siem Reap has a strong tourist draw; nobody would think twice of visitors showing up, taking a couple of tours, venturing to some stores, and disappearing again out of Phnom Penh. There's too much traffic flow, too many people, and those who do notice aren't going to be the type to say a word about it.

It's almost a smart plan, setting up shop here. Unfortunately for Wilds, he isn't clever enough to realize who's on his tail.

"Can't believe I'm spendin' _two_ birthdays tryin' to get rid of this guy." Jesse polishes off his food and puts his (damp) hat back on his (also damp) head.

"Should have been more thorough," Reyes says, scrolling through his datapad. It isn't much of a scolding as scoldings go, but Jesse still worries the inside of his cheek anyway. "Too bad we can't bury them under snow again."

"Too bad," agrees Jesse. The rain's beginning to let up. He watches rivulets run down from the slanted roof over them. "Wonder what it took to dig their shit outta the avalanche?"

There's a snort in response. "Not nearly enough."

Reyes stands. The little chair he was in scrapes against the cement floor of the restaurant's porch, the rickety sound of its legs almost charming. The porch itself is raised; below, there's mud swirling in the pools of water that've formed from the rush of rain, and Jesse narrows his eyes distrustfully at a seemingly shallow puddle. He's still picking crusty flakes of dirt off of his boots from the last time he stepped in water that was deceptively deep. At the very least, he doesn't have to worry about his arm; it might be an older model, but it's not about to short-out because of a little (or a lot) of rain.

Traveling back to the small place they're renting requires dodging through rain and traffic alike; Reyes leads the way on his borrowed hoverbike, Jesse following after on his own. While most of Siem Reap seems nearly untouched from the first Omnic Crisis, this part of the city has seen its fair share of change after the fact. It attracts more tourists, which means there's a larger focus on convenient technology — while some vehicles still sport wheels, there's just as many that don't, instead favoring hover tech. It helps to combat the rainy season too — with so many streets and roads covered in rain that pools higher and higher, the hoverbikes and smaller modes of transport don't find themselves stuck in any runoff.

Still, though. Jesse likes the city's distance from the world at large. In some backwards way, it feels all too familiar to how he grew up with an interesting blend of old and new. With his upbringing, Jesse feels nearly nostalgic with Siem Reap's easy balance between the modern and the outdated.

"Almost time for your meeting, Mr. Silvia," Reyes says after they've made it inside. He pulls off his hoodie while Jesse wrings out the ends of his hair and shakes out his hat. Jesse has to bite back a laugh when water scatters wildly and forces Reyes to block his face with a hand.

"Goin'," Jesse announces before Reyes can say anything sharp, hanging up the hat and sliding past with a grin.

 _Hank Silvia_ is a CEO from Arizona who does contracting work, project management, and mission support with government clients primarily based out of Phoenix. Jesse McCree is a sharpshooter from the southwest United States with a background in trafficking illicit tech and weaponry, sometimes _stolen_ from government clients. They have certain details in common, but the biggest takeaway is this: they both clean up _very_ nicely.

Jesse showers and ties his hair back, then works to slick any flyaways down with gel. His scruff is trimmed and made neat. The dark suit he puts on is expensive and tailored to fit immaculately, right down to the functional cuffs (their buttons left undone for show). He'd prefer wearing something that isn't straight out of a damn catalogue but Mr. Silvia is a man of appearances, even if they're the exact opposite of the ones that Jesse likes. The shoes are shiny and pointed; Jesse's alright with them. He can't hear the rain any longer, which is good for him and his hair.

Finally, he strolls out to face his inspection. The scrutiny begins with Reyes sitting in one of the chairs in the kitchen and Jesse attempting to preen.

"ID?" Reyes asks him.

Jesse flips the card out of his inside pocket. It's a perfect forgery. He smiles winningly and tucks it away again.

"Phone?"

Other pocket. He shakes the phone twice in Reyes' line of sight and says, "tada," before returning the phone to its place.

"Where's your gun?"

" _Your_ gun." Jesse lifts up one side of the jacket to expose the small pistol at his hip, its silencer already screwed in place, and then hides it again, arms crossing.

Reyes rolls his eyes. "Story?"

"Interested in doin' some exchanges with him, heard about his li'l pocket here, wanted to get in on it. Early investments, quick monopoly."

"And Siberia?"

"Had my people look into it." Jesse makes sure he sounds sympathetic and flippant all at once — a perfect balance for curt professionalism. "Real sad, that avalanche. Mighty sorry about his business partners left out in the cold."

Reyes _almost_ cracks something more than a smirk. "Any deals?"

"Not until there's an agreement." Jesse raises his shoulders in a remiss shrug. "Mr. Silvia prides himself on his public reputation. Doesn't have any time for makin' promises to people who ain't gonna do him any good, though."

Reyes seems to analyze him. Then: "Accent."

Jesse takes extra care to subdue the twang when he says, "Sure."

From there it's a waiting game.

Reyes goes back to organizing schedules, replying to messages, sending out info and presumably working; Jesse idles, watching the clock change and the thick blanket of clouds part to reveal late afternoon light. This should mark the last of their stay in Cambodia, and then they'll leave Siem Reap behind and head to wherever else they're needed. With how things went in Zürich, Jesse isn't so sure he'll be going back. He reported what happened with Genji ("he tried to strangle me because I wanted to talk about his brother" isn't exactly the best way to break bad news; Reyes' response was a dry, "I would've strangled you too"). Reyes pulled him out of Zürich and into Cambodia mere days afterwards.

It was a win-win. Reyes got the person he wanted to have on the mission and Jesse got to focus on something other than his stupid mistake. The first two months were spent meticulously cracking down on Wilds' surviving would-be partners until one of them was able to point in the right direction; the next three involved heavy networking within the local black market. The most recent month consisted of establishing contact with Reyes facilitating as Silvia's assistant, because everyone who knows Jesse knows damn well he's not going to be writing professional emails any time soon.

"Too bad you don't get to be Mr. Silvia," Jesse comments as Reyes begins to head out an hour before the allotted meeting time; he'll be watching. "You just got that kinda face, y'know. Almost like you're some sort of _hero_ or something."

Reyes looks like he's torn between shaking his head and lobbing the nearest throw pillow at him. In the end, he only tosses Jesse one of their small communicators to fit into his ear and turns back to the door. "Get serious."

The door shuts; the lock clicks. Jesse counts the half-hour down. He's meeting Wilds on Pub Street, which isn't more than a ten-minute drive away. Jesse spends his brief time wandering the house, assuring that everything is packed and ready, and examining his own datapad, his gaze always flicking up to the time whenever the numbers shift. Browsing through his old bookmarks, he pauses when he reaches articles saved from months ago, dated from even _more_ months before. They're all about Genji Shimada; none of them discussing his disappearance.

He starts deleting them. They're no use to him anymore since there's no way he's getting sent back to monitor Genji. There's a notification waiting before he slides the datapad back with the rest of his luggage. He opens it without skipping a beat, grinning when he sees Amari's message.

> _Fareeha brought tea. This is your doing_

No question about it. He wonders whether Fareeha ratted him out or if Amari's really that good at seeing through him, even entire countries away. Probably both. He taps out a quick reply before he gets up to leave.

> _guilty as charged. tell her howdy from me._

Outside, the air is humid and heavy. The ride itself is almost comfortable so long as he's moving, but the second Jesse dismounts his bike and pulls the helmet away, he wishes he could shuck off the suit jacket. Necessary costume or not, it's still hot as hell. If it was a dry heat, he could manage. That's the kind of spring-summer weather he _likes_ , but the sun is soaking into his clothes and he's never wanted to be outside any less. Jesse rolls his shoulders back, forcing his spine into a _Silvia_ level of straight. A glance at the reflection in his phone screen provides tells him his hair at least is still more or less in order, save for a couple of strands that've come loose and fallen into his face.

The number of people is no surprise considering the locale. Jesse's getting bumped and nudged as he walks his bike farther away from the crowds, lining the vehicle up with all the rest and making sure he checks the plate. Every bike is the same make and model, even down to the color; clearly, he's not the only one renting. He looks at his phone again, going through recent email conversations between Wilds and Silvia's own ever-reliable assistant.

With the clouds still lingering, it's enough to allow the neon signs lining the buildings and arching overhead to brighten the wet street. He's reminded of Hanamura's lights suddenly, how they'd lit the night in direct opposition to everything else that seemed stolen right out from another time. Jesse makes a face, stepping out of the way of people riding past, memorizing the description of where Wilds wants him to be from the last email exchanged. He gives a subtle, curious glance around, and then turns his head partway as if struggling to find the proper pants pocket for his phone.

"Testing," Jesse says quietly into his shoulder.

"I hear you." Reyes' voice comes through smooth and clear. "Visual?"

"Getting there."

Reyes doesn't respond and Jesse doesn't expect him to, slipping his phone away and walking with his hands loosely clasped behind his back. He analyzes each shop and every sign, turning dismissively from the ones that aren't identical to what was written. _Red cloth overhang, white lights strung around it. American soda advertisements — I take it Mr. Silvia likes Coca-Cola products._

To which Jesse told Reyes: "I'm not much one for carbonation. Hurts my teeth."

To which Reyes told Wilds: _Mr. Silvia will be glad to hear it._

(Asshole.)

At last Jesse spots what has to be the place, the red skirt of the overhang flapping gently against the fleeting breeze. He says every variation of "pardon me" that exists on his way over, slowing only as Reyes registers in his ear again.

"Word of advice, cowboy."

"Huh," comes Jesse's easy reply, ducking past people, slipping between groups on his way.

There's amusement in Reyes' voice when he says, "Don't ask about his family."

" _Ha, ha_."

He sees Wilds through a break in the crowd and steps up the pace, feeling more and more like a fish swimming upstream. All of the bodies and movement only make the heat more oppressive. Sweat has begun forming at the nape of his neck. Jesse wishes for the second time that he could take the jacket off, but it's the only thing keeping his gun out of plain sight.

"If I die of heatstroke," Jesse says under his breath with gritted teeth, "I'm blamin' you."

"Accent," Reyes reminds him.

Lounging in his chair, legs apart and arms spread wide, Tommy Wilds looks exactly how anyone and everyone would expect a shady black market omnic-parts-dealer to look. Jesse's own slicked-back hair is suddenly not nearly as offensive compared to what he's heading towards. There's the slightest glimpse of a holster peeking out from under the side of Wilds' (much lighter, sporting rolled-up sleeves, no less) navy jacket.

Jesse keeps it in mind.

There's only one notable change to Wilds since Jesse ruined his day in Siberia — either side of the man's neck appears to be supported by metal fixed to his bare skin that extends down beneath the back of his crisp white collar. Augmented spine, maybe. It's the furthest thing from cosmetic, more of a hack job than any other prosthetic Jesse's ever seen. Wilds interrupts Jesse's thought when he turns his head and catches sight of him. Jesse tips his chin high in a greeting, lifting a hand.

"Mr. Silvia, hello!" Wilds stands, holds out his hand in offer once Jesse is near enough. "Nice to see a fellow American out here."

 _Yankee_ , Jesse decides grimly upon hearing Wilds pronounce 'nice' as if it has an _o_ hidden somewhere. Jesse keeps his own drawl under his tongue, smiling wide, taking the man's hand. "Pleasure's all mine," he assures. Wilds gives handshakes like he's trying to tear off the other person's arm. Jesse's smile doesn't waver.

Their handshake lasts too long for his liking, then Wilds points behind him and down at the table, spinning to pluck something from it — a soda in a glass bottle, inanely enough. "Here, I picked the place special for you. Consider it nothin' more than a detour."

"You're shaping up to be a fine host," Jesse says, smile still firmly in place. Somewhere, he knows Reyes is laughing at him as he takes the bottle and holds it in a lax grip. There's still condensation on it; Jesse swaps it from his left to his right hand, glad for even the slightest combat to the heat. "With a detour like this, I'd imagine our destination must be even better."

Wilds doesn't seem to fluster, but he does clear his throat and wave, beckoning. "Of course, right to business. Your assistant did mention that you were on something of a time crunch."

Jesse has no idea what "time crunch" he's talking about and is exceptionally grateful when Wilds doesn't ask him to elaborate. He leads Jesse to a _tuk-tuk_ driver and they both climb into the carriage.

Tommy Wilds, Jesse is not surprised to find out, smells like he might have possibly bathed in whatever he uses to keep his hair pressed flat to his head. He's also incredibly talkative, and equally as arrogant. Whatever meager success he's had has gone to his head enough that he doesn't mind sharing all of his _secrets_ with Mr. Silvia — or, Jesse figures, it's more likely that Reyes just did a damn good job of playing Silvia off as the type of critical benefactor that Wilds wouldn't want to miss out on. He's looking to impress; Jesse is looking to clean up.

They toss around the usual small talk between potential illicit business partners. Wilds mentions a setback that occurred about a year ago; Jesse hems and haws and then asks the calculated question — _Siberia_ was _unfortunate, wasn't it?_ Wilds has the guts to confide ( _very_ quietly, giving Jesse an extra strong whiff that makes his eyes water) that he was most likely going to kill all of his partners sooner or later anyway, seeing as they'd had plans to run off with more than their fair share. There's a pause, like Wilds is judging his reaction, but Jesse only tugs a corner of his mouth up and states solemnly that sometimes, pay cuts simply _must_ be doled out. Wilds laughs and claps him on the back hard enough to make Jesse's shirt beneath the jacket stick to his sweaty skin.

As it turns out, his entire operation is run out of Cambodia; even better, it's managed and supplied right out of his shop tucked away in a narrow corner off of Pub Street, nestled between two fresh food markets. The only major difference that Jesse notes between Wilds' building and the others is that his dips lower into the relatively flat ground. That seems dangerous in a place that gets as much rain as Siem Reap does. A flooding hazard, surely.

 _Unless_ , Jesse reasons, it's reinforced underground.

His gaze flicks to the back of Wilds' neck as he exits the _tuk-tuk_. The shine of metal, the clasps nestled against his neck and lower — it all points to some sort of fortification. Jesse still doesn't have an answer as to how Wilds lived through Siberia, but he thinks he can make some assumptions.

Wilds' shop functions as both home and work. The ground floor is unimpressive and barren, but there's another floor above that Wilds informs him is his living space. He wastes none of Jesse's time, leading him to a hatch that reveals a set of stairs that seem more likely to drop them than support any weight at all, but Jesse only comments on how efficient his business model is. It works to stroke his ego, Wilds smiling in reply.

Once they make it down into the lower level and the meager light's clicked on, Jesse sees all he needs to see. Shelves upon shelves full of Omnic parts line the walls while sentry pieces in the middle of being taken apart and reassembled span multiple tables. Damaged Cyrillic script gleams on some of the bits. Jesse reads what he can; some of these are Svyatogor parts. No goddamn wonder Wilds is so proud of himself — that's government property, and he's trying to make illegal weaponry out of it.

"So," Wilds says, clapping his hands together and looking over at Jesse. "Got a ballpark for me?"

"Well." Jesse exhales like he really is impressed and continues to peer around the room. "What's your overhead?"

"Hardly anything. This _is_ the entire operation. I'm what you might call a, ah, penny pincher."

"Uh-huh." Jesse rubs his forehead and moves the bottle to his left hand again, the other resting on his hip. "Well, damn. Bet that pays off."

He's smug when he replies, "Always."

"Yeah." Another exhale, and Jesse drops the act, no more _Silvia_ to be found as he shakes his head. "You're up on one _real_ high horse, pal, and you ain't got what it takes to climb back down."

"I…" Wilds blinks once, and then more frantically. "I'm sorry, excuse me?"

"Hey," Jesse goes on, "no hard feelings over Siberia. See, I thought you'd be dead already. Then you went and made me chase you all the goddamn way 'round Cambodia? You couldn't've picked a more _opposite_ place."

The usual questions float by unsaid. _Who are you, what do you want, can you be bribed?_ There's no reason to say them — no need, because Jesse has more than enough to tie a noose and Wilds stuck his damn neck in it the moment his head got too big for his shoulders.

A couple more seconds go by.

Wilds starts to pull his gun out.

Jesse cracks the bottle of soda over his head and shoots first.

Ultimately, it might be one of the quickest near-death experiences he's ever had and subsequently walked out from unscathed. Outside of the shattered bottle he's left holding and the blood-cola mixture now coating his shoes and spattered across his pants, Jesse is completely unharmed. He sighs and flicks the safety back on his own gun before tucking it back into its holster.

"Too slow," he says to nobody in particular, tossing the remainder of the bottle onto the smooth cement floor.

And then he takes that _goddamn suit jacket_ off and allows his skin, beneath the relatively-thin dress shirt, to _breathe_.

"You done?" Reyes asks from midway down the stairs, already pinching the comm out of his ear. Broken glass crunches beneath his boots as he comes closer, examining the body on the ground. "Someone who survived an avalanche shouldn't be such an idiot."

"Survived an avalanche, can't survive us." Jesse drapes his jacket over his arm. "Maybe _we_ should go into business."

"Fuck." Reyes makes a disparaging noise. "Business and politics are the only things worse than our current line of work."

"Better the devil you know."

They get to cleaning up and collecting. In a matter of minutes, the United Nations has been notified and they've arranged for both transport and a flight out of Phnom Penh, just like any other tourists. Their luggage is picked up, Jesse's outfit is changed, and Reyes sets out to wipe and destroy any evidence that they'd ever interacted with a man by the name of Tommy Wilds, whose last known location on every existing record no longer reads _Siem Reap_ , but instead reads _Siberia_.

Jesse eventually asks where they're off to as they take a _tuk-tuk_ to the airport. Reyes only stretches out leisurely, squinting on over at him like he's not sure whether he should make Jesse work to figure it out on his own or not.

"We're going to see your new partner," Reyes finally says.

 

* * *

 

It's simple, as it turns out.

While en route, they talk in hushed tones. Reyes shares the long and short of it: Overwatch and Blackwatch have been butting heads more and more often, both with the UN and with each other. By placing a Blackwatch agent — the most recognized Blackwatch agent among Overwatch, after all that time spent in Zürich — alongside a certain fledgling Overwatch agent, it's both an olive branch and a white flag. Jesse can't be grouped with most agents because of the nature of his usual work, but putting him with Genji allows for greater versatility, seeing as that he's off most radars, and being off of the radar is something of a necessity for Jesse.

Reyes says all of this with a slight scowl as if he's not entirely pleased.

There's still the whole issue of Jesse asking the wrong questions and Genji nearly throttling him, but if he's Genji's partner, then the game has changed. In one conversation, Genji slid smoothly from _asset_ to _agent_ in Jesse's hierarchy of interest.  

They take turns sleeping, Reyes first and Jesse after. By the time Jesse wakes up they've passed over into central Europe. He finds Reyes is typing on his datapad. His eyes flick briefly to Jesse. "Amari's picking us up," Reyes tells him.

"She message you?"

"No." He puts the datapad away a little too quickly. Jesse squints but decides to do Reyes the favor of not calling him out.

When they step out of the airport, Amari greets them both in turn — she clasps Jesse's hands, fond, before patting Reyes' elbow insistently, once and then twice, until the man rolls his eyes over at Jesse and drapes an arm across her shoulders. It isn't much as hugs go, but Amari laughs brightly regardless.

The Overwatch base isn't far enough to snag another nap, though Jesse is sorely tempted. Amari drives and talks mostly with Reyes, who took the passenger seat, leaving Jesse sequestered to the back, between both duffel bags. At one point Amari meets Jesse's gaze in the rearview mirror and clucks her tongue before she says, "You owe me tea time. Fareeha brought too much and told me it was your idea."

Ratted out, then. _Snitch_ , Jesse thinks, terribly fond, before he surrenders with an agreement: "Anytime, ma'am."

Jesse's first stop is his newly assigned room, courtesy of Amari. Though not the same as the last he'd had, it looks nearly identical. The walls are smooth and light, no window, but there's a painting of some idyllic, green landscape hung up. He drops off his bag, takes a shower, and changes.

Jesse's second stop takes some thinking.

There's a very good chance that Angela already knows he's back on base. There's one-hundred-percent _surety_ that she's going to remember how he screwed up with Genji. While Jesse had been the one that made the mess, Angela was no doubt the one who picked up the pieces. Even if he wasn't roped into the Cambodia op immediately afterwards, Angela would have made it very clear that Jesse wasn't allowed back in the infirmary. Jesse of six months ago would have most likely been fine with that, considering Genji wasn't averse to getting his shiny and new hands around Jesse's throat at the time — but Jesse of now has some explaining to do.

He makes his way to the medbay, giving Torbjörn a half-salute as he spies him across the yard and getting an enthusiastic gesture in return. There's less people on base, and Jesse supposes that means they're keeping busy elsewhere, off base or in other parts he's not interested in visiting. If anything big happened, he would have heard about it, Cambodia or no. The weather's a much needed relief, far cooler than Siem Reap's soaring temperatures. Jesse takes advantage of the mild day and sweeps around the outer edge of the base to get to the medbay and from there, Angela's office. It's not procrastination, though it _is_ slower than it could be if he went the short way and cut through the buildings.

"Just takin' my time," he mumbles to himself when he finally makes it into the hallway leading towards the infirmary. It's another solid minute before he takes the final steps leading up to the entrance, and then an extra few seconds before he raps his knuckles on the outside of her office's wall, right next to the door.

Jesse glances in the direction of the quarantine area and decontamination chamber. He could've made it through there first, if only to peek through the little window to check on Genji. The idea doesn't quite sit right with him. He owes an apology to more than one person; he'll handle that first.

Angela's door slides open. Jesse stuffs his hands in his pockets, lips pursed and all of his weight in his heels. "I was wondering when you would come see me," she says after a moment of regarding each other. There's a small smile on her lips, even if it holds a bit of tension. "Come in."

"Here I was tryin' to make it a surprise," Jesse says, moseying into the office. The door shuts behind him again. Hardly anything has changed in Angela's little corner — there's still a stack of papers a mile high on her desk, there's still a single light that flickers funny every so often. Jesse doesn't often return somewhere immediately; it feels like he'd just stepped out into the yard rather than the entire country for over six months.

Angela turns to face him once she gets to her desk, taking a seat and gesturing for Jesse to pull over one of the chairs against the wall. He does, elbows on either armrest and hands dangling once he's sitting.

"Your beard is a surprise," she replies, sliding a particularly intrusive tower of paperwork and folders to the side so they can look at each other without having to lean around. "You trimmed it for once?"

"Under duress."

" _That_ is not a surprise. But I suspect you're not here to discuss your facial hair."

"Well, no." He rubs the back of his neck, leaning back a little more in his seat. "Was actually hopin' to maybe make amends with Genji if he's not in a bad way right now." Angela frowns and Jesse holds both palms out defensively, pleading. "Now, hold on, I know. I'm real sorry about what happened before. He tell you?"

"We spoke," she says, slow and cautionary.

Jesse drops his hands. "I didn't mean for it to turn out the way it did. I just wanted to see if he was doin' alright and apologize."

"You're doing this because you were told to?"

She may as well've just taken a scalpel to him with that kind of tone. Jesse nearly winces. "Commander liked the idea of stickin' me with Genji. I figure it'll go better if he ain't tryin' to wring my neck."

Angela pinches the bridge of her nose, hair falling into her face. " _Jesse_."

"I know."

"You were callous —"

"Yeah," he admits.

"— thoughtless —"

"Ain't wrong."

"— and _entirely_ out of line. And you want a repeat performance?" She's baffled. Jesse can't blame her; if he hadn't been assigned Genji as a partner, he doesn't know whether or not he'd even be having this conversation.

"I ain't arguing with any of that." He sits up straight, earnest and sincere when he continues, "I really am sorry, Angie. I want it all t'go better this time, I mean it. Cross my heart."

She fixes her stare on him for a beat longer and then exhales a long breath. "I'm not who you should be apologizing to."

Jesse's shoulders hitch up and drop again. "I'd like to be forgiven anyway, by both you and him. S'why I'm here."

Angela spreads her palms across her desk, fingers splaying outwards and then curling into her palms again in a show of her indecisiveness. She glances to the stack of papers next to her, brows furrowed, before she comes to a decision and says, "Genji is not currently in the medical bay."

It takes a second for Jesse's brain to catch up, and then he's leaning forward again, all interest. "That's good, right? He's all, uh… finished?"

 _Finished_ is clearly not the right word to use if Angela's expression is anything to go by, but she doesn't comment on it. Her nails tap one after another in a rapid rhythm against the desk before she draws her hands back entirely, leaning away and into her chair as if she needs the support. "Genji's body has been rebuilt, yes," she begins, pressing her lips into a thin line. "He's in no way ready for any type of mission, of course. It's already amazing that he's on his feet so quickly. I... don't want to get in the habit of being greedy with any marvels."

So Genji's free to run around to his heart's content. Maybe Jesse would've seen him already if he hadn't intentionally skirted around everything. "He ain't some big secret anymore?"

"I've been told that anyone without proper clearance has been sent to a different base." Her voice is dry when she adds, "Commander Morrison enacted a quiet, off the record policy that refuses media coverage of the perimeter."

"Well, I'll be," Jesse mumbles under his breath. He studies her, the circles beneath her eyes and how her fingers continue to move between erratic tapping and forced stillness. "So what's eatin' at you?"

" _Physically_ , Genji is recovering." Angela clasps her hands together and drops them into her lap. "But mentally? _Emotionally_? Though his body is in working order… I'm doubtful as to the rest."   

Jesse thinks back: the way Genji had lunged, the way Genji had fallen apart in front of him, the way at some point it had been as if Jesse wasn't even _there_. The anger, the rage, so different than the flat aversion that Jesse had previously witnessed when asking him things he shouldn't have asked. From the way Angela looks at him, he's sure she knows what's on his mind.

He clears his throat, settles. "He talked to you any?"

"He keeps to himself," Angela says. "And might I remind you — I am a _doctor_ , not a therapist."

Jesse scrubs a hand over his eyes with a huff, pushing what he can reach of his hair back before he works up to getting to his feet. "Damn. Alright. I'll find him, see how he's doing, make nice."

Angela certainly doesn't appear convinced, instead humming dubiously. "I can't and won't stop you from speaking to him, but _please_ take care, Jesse. I don't want to see him any worse off."

He scoffs out a laugh, putting the chair back where he got it from. "You'll have my head, I'm sure."

"Yes, I will." Angela responds so quickly that Jesse's brought up short, but she's turning back to her work already, no longer looking his way. He gives a lazy excuse for a wave behind him anyhow, pressing fingers to the door's pad to open it up again and allow him out.

For a moment all Jesse does is take off his hat and stand thoughtfully outside Angela's closed door. Genji's staying on base, all done up with his weaponization and whatever else they wanted out of him. Not doing well, from what Angela says, which means it isn't untrue to think nothing much has changed outside of him being able to move again.

"Shit," Jesse mutters, dropping the hat back onto his head.

There's no movement that tells him to glance to the side and no presence that urges him to pay attention — it's simple coincidence that causes Jesse to look over and spot Genji standing hardly a handful of feet away. There's a dark visor over his face, a green slash curved into a _v_ -shape, but Jesse knows he's not mistaking who it is, unique in his recreation. Genji has the usual Overwatch jumpsuit on, orange and black on gray, sleeveless, baring the cords of synthetic muscle along his arms.

The back of Jesse's neck prickles. Genji says nothing. Genji does nothing.

" _Shit_ ," Jesse says again, louder this time and with more _oomph_ thanks to his startled discomfort. He realizes he's still got his fingers holding loosely at the brim of his hat and drops his hand, finally remembering to take a breath. "Saves me from havin' to track you down, I guess, that's, uh..."

Even as Jesse speaks, Genji starts to take steps closer. Jesse stands his ground.

"I wanted to talk." Genji takes a step around him. "With you." Another step, just at the edge of Jesse's personal space. "Whenever you got a chance." Jesse turns his head to follow Genji as he circles around, watches as he punches in the combination to the door and opens it.

And then Genji shuts the door in Jesse's face before Angela even has a chance to see what's happening. Jesse stares, feeling like he's done this old song and dance before.

He weighs his options. He could wait for Genji to come back out, but his stomach is starting to ache from hunger and ambushing Genji in response to _being_ ambushed by Genji is both unoriginal and a surefire way to have Angela on his ass. It's not like Genji's going anywhere any time soon, and neither is Jesse. He deliberates.

It's a matter of getting Genji to lend an ear. Clearly, he doesn't want to, and clearly, he has no desire to hear anything that Jesse might bring to the table. Genji's just as skilled at stumping him as ever. It would've been easier if it _had_ devolved into an altercation, Jesse muses. Then at least he wouldn't have been able to just _ignore_ Jesse altogether. Jesse scratches at his cheek, grinds his teeth together. Plain and simple — he's not giving up until he says his piece. Genji can forgive him or not, but either way, all Jesse hopes for is that he'll _talk_ to him. Once they talk, then they can work. Once they work, then they can make some real progress.

He ends up going to the mess, to eat and to regroup.

 

* * *

 

Jesse catches Genji in the training area.

He was headed to the firing range when he decided to take a peek, _just in case_ , only to see Genji with a blade in his hand and what appears to be one of the dummies moved to the center of the room on a stand. At first glance, Jesse wants to know who gave Genji a sword, but then he takes note of the blunt edges, the thick material. Something to practice with, then — but Genji seems to be wielding it as if it's lighter than air.

There's no one else here — Jesse looks around to make sure, and then he's strolling over to join Genji. It's nearly nighttime, the sky beginning to fade and the spotlights around the area slowly flicking on as the day ends; even so, there's plenty of light to see by. Grass gives way to dirt, packed hard into the ground. Jesse's boots add a lot of noise to the relative silence. He's making no effort to be stealthy. Genji acts as if Jesse doesn't exist.

"Nice sword," Jesse says anyway, stopping within speaking distance but not within stabbing distance. Fake sword or not, Jesse's learned his wariness.

Genji doesn't reply, but Jesse isn't thinking that he will after their earlier miserable excuse for conversation. Instead, he strikes the dummy with the sword as if Jesse hadn't even opened his mouth. It's fast. Jesse can appreciate it from his relatively safe spot.

"Didn't even know we had anything like a sword on the base," Jesse goes on. "But I'm not much one for 'em myself."

Still nothing, but the next swing of Genji's sword slams into the dummy hard enough that it trembles on its stand. Jesse stares for longer than is strictly necessary.

"I prefer a classy kinda firearm."

By the third time the sword makes contact, Jesse wouldn't be surprised if the next one snaps it clean in half.

"If it ain't broke, don't fix it, right —"

Jesse's mouth stops running right around the same time that Genji kicks the dummy across the goddamn yard. All he does is lift his knee and kick forward, but it's enough force to send the thing flying, ripped off of its stand completely. The stand itself rocks violently but somehow manages to remain upright. Jesse feels the beginning of a cold sweat.

Genji very deliberately turns his whole body to face him.

"I already know that we are to be partners, Jesse McCree."

Any relief that Jesse might have felt thanks to Genji finally acknowledging him is lost in the wake of seeing him _decimate_ the training dummy. There's a good bit of weight to those things, and Genji didn't even flinch. Jesse clears his throat.

"Why've you been ignorin' me then?" he asks.

"Since I was brought here, I have agreed to many things," Genji says. His tone is light, even conversational in contrast to the startling show of force, which only causes Jesse even more unease. "But do not confuse my agreement with obligation. I have no intention of offering any more to Overwatch than I have already." Jesse's eyebrows go up; Genji crosses his arms. "That includes _playing nice_ for the sake of appearances." He cants his head sharply to the side. "Also," he adds bitingly, "I don't like your hat."

Needled, Jesse's lips tug down as he shifts his weight. "Well, sorry to say, but the hat's not goin' anywhere." He puts a hand up to the brim almost protectively, taking a breath before he says, imploring, "Just hear me out. Won't be nothin' but a tick. Please."

He pauses. Waits. He drops his fingers away from the hat. Genji scoffs at first but doesn't tell him no, walk away, or kick Jesse across the field, so Jesse figures he's got the green light.

"I wanna make bein' partners work. Last thing I want's for the both of us to only make it through all of this by the skin of our teeth. So, uh. I'm sorry. I'm real damn sorry." Jesse jerks his head in the direction of the fallen dummy. Genji doesn't look, but he does slightly tip his chin. "And after seein' what you did to that dummy way over yonder? 'Scuse my French, but I think we could do some real fuckin' good."

Jesse sticks his right hand out, palm open. Not quite daring to hope, he finishes: "Here's to bein' partners, partner?"

For an excruciatingly long moment, Jesse is sure he's _truly_ made a fool of himself as Genji stills to a statue in front of him. It's much like he'd done months before in the medbay — a neat trick, if not awfully creepy and ominous, all things considered. Jesse wishes he could just see Genji's face, or guess at the expression he might be making. His visor flashes once, but otherwise remains blank and impassive. Just as Jesse is about to give up and drop his arm, Genji gradually uncrosses his and moves to meet him. His grip is loose, but the synthetic flesh of Genji's palm is surprisingly warm against Jesse's.

They shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * trivia: jesse mccree is just a sweaty boy, actually, not just because of cambodia's rainy season.  
> 
> * thank you to everyone who's stuck with us this long! it's been a fun evolution so far.  
> 
> * and lastly: gee is a friggin beautiful miraculous wondrous amazing lovely soul who fixed everything wrong with this chapter while i cried and played dishonored 2 for five hours. i love u so much gee. i love u.


	7. Chapter 7

When Commander Reyes calls him, Jesse expects that he's going to be grilled for an update and has already thought about what he wants to say. _Me and Genji have had a great time so far together, boss. We started sparring together last week and boy, you wouldn't believe the right hook on this guy. We're really gettin' along._ He's got it all plotted out. He'll leave all the discussion about his various bumps and bruises out and focus entirely on supporting their budding partnership.

What he's not expecting is to be told that for the time, he's off Blackwatch duties.

"Sir?" Jesse asks, voice lilting up in surprise.

"Report to Commander Morrison." After a second, Reyes dryly adds, "He's managed to make time to be on base, so I expect he's looking forward to speaking with you personally."

"I hear you," says Jesse carefully, grabbing his hat from the table and putting it back on his head.

The whole time he's been in Zürich, he's at least been on call. If some sort of emergency struck, he'd be waved back over to Blackwatch regardless of his status in Overwatch, active agent or not. Outside of the Cambodia op, which he _had_ to be on, Jesse's been completely inactive in Blackwatch matters for almost a year. He doesn't even know if he's on the roster anymore —

" _McCree_." Reyes interrupts his thoughts, sounding like maybe he's tried to get Jesse's attention once or twice already to no avail. Jesse straightens in his seat.

"Yessir?"  

"Anything else?"

It takes a moment for Jesse to figure out what exactly he wants to say but he slowly settles on, "Feels a bit like you're tryin' to bench me, is all."

There's a long, controlled sigh on the other end. Jesse's heart thuds in his chest until he hears, "I'm not kicking you out. You can work with Overwatch. It doesn't go the other way for Agent Shimada."

"Gotcha, boss." He shuffles his feet, antsy.

"Conference room. Get your partner and go."

They disconnect. Jesse does what he's told.

He considers trying to polish off his early lunch but instead grabs the little packet of chips to take with him as he hustles through the base in search of Genji. He starts by checking the training area, crunching on his chips and aimlessly peering around when there's no flying mannequins that greet him. A small group at the outdoor firing range mills around, but Genji's not among them — and Jesse doesn't expect him to be. He's fairly certain Genji doesn't interact with anybody outside of himself and Angela, and that's only out of necessity.

He idles by the door long enough that he starts to feel the new loneliness of the base start to sink in before he heads back inside. Once upon a time, Zürich was easily the busiest base Overwatch had. Now, there was just a small fraction of the people who used to be here.

 _And to think,_ Jesse muses as he tosses his empty bag, _it's all thanks to Overwatch's secret cyborg._

He practically jumps out of his skin when he turns the corner in the hall and comes close to running straight into Overwatch's secret cyborg himself. Schooling his expression into one that doesn't look so startled, Jesse's gaze flicks over Genji's blank faceplate and then the rest of him. What seems to be armor covers his wide shoulders now, and there's protective plating fitted down his arms, ending at his wrists.

"Fancy," Jesse says once he's done staring at Genji's arms. _We gotta stop meetin' like this_ , he thinks but blessedly doesn't say. "Torbjörn do that? Didn't know he was still on base."

"The commander wishes to speak with us," Genji replies offhandedly, ignoring his comments. Truthfully, Jesse hadn't really expected a reply in the first place. He shrugs loosely.

"So I heard. Let's not keep him waiting."

He fully turns the corner, trusting Genji will follow. Jesse tosses a look behind him after a few steps only because Genji's unfairly good at walking without a sound and the last thing he needs is for him to pull some kind of ninja bullshit and disappear. Genji seems to take note of him checking, because then he's matching Jesse's stride and even going a little faster. He reaches the door before Jesse does and proceeds to slip into the room first.

Jesse spends a few seconds feeling nearly amused, and then he steps through the doorway after him.

The last time he'd spoken to Commander Morrison, he'd been telling the small Hanamura team the terms of Genji's stay with Overwatch; not five minutes later, Reyes had ordered Jesse to keep him filled in on the situation. From the very beginning, Reyes had been skeptical of the way Overwatch chose to handle Genji, yet he's had Jesse become progressively more involved with him as time has passed despite that suspicion — from casual observer to deceptive ally to shaky-but-sincere partner, Jesse's run the gamut with him.

At the very least, things seem to have leveled out between them. It's all Jesse can ask for.

"Agents," Morrison greets them both. He leans forward towards the table, hands braced against it. There's a tablet in front of him with what looks like a map displayed on the screen, but Jesse's too far away to make any details out of the upside-down display. "Something suiting your talents has come up."

 _Your talents,_ he says, as in both of them. Jesse glances to Genji, eyes following the line of his profile, along the sharp curve of his visor that leads down to the smooth edge of the faceplate. He's seen Genji's face plenty of times before, all during his recovery in the infirmary, but for all that experience, he's got little hope of reading him now.

"A mission?" Jesse clarifies, looking back to Morrison.

"An _operation_." With a swipe, the map on the tablet is projected above the table, rotated to face them. Now that Jesse can see it clearly, he reads _Socorro_ labeled and realizes that the map is New Mexico — and when Morrison zooms out, it's the entire American Southwest with red lines scattered across the full region. Jesse takes a too-sharp breath. "You'll be leaving at 0400. There's a particular group, The Devils, that have become infamous for both their large amount of territory and their ruthlessness in dealing with competition. We've planned a sting operation that should lead to the arrests of most of the gang. The team we originally set up needs extra hands and you two are a good fit for the job."

Jesse keeps his stare fixed on the map. His gaze runs along the boundary of the red lines, the stomping ground that he used to know so well. In his peripheral, he notices Genji incline his head just so, but Jesse simply presses his lips together and listens to Morrison.

"There will be a full briefing on the flight. Agent Mirembe is heading it." Another swipe and the map disappears with a flicker. Morrison clasps his hands together in front of him. "As for the reason I'm speaking with you both beforehand, this is your first time working together. I wanted to be certain that it was something you could handle."

Morrison's eyes flick between them, waiting. Jesse almost thinks he's really asking _him_ , that he's not sure _Jesse_ can handle this — but then Genji answers.

"It will be done," he says, and Jesse supposes that's that.

 

* * *

 

 

Even when the turbulence jostles them hard enough for Jesse's knees to get knocked around, Genji manages to keep his space to himself. Maybe another time, Jesse would have been impressed, but for the moment his mind is occupied. Outside of the hushed voices from Mirembe's team, who all try very hard not to look for too long in their direction, the hum of the plane is a welcome white noise to focus on.

It's going to go like this, Mirembe says as she pulls up the same map: an earlier, small group from her team has already set up a meeting with The Devils. Jesse and Genji are assigned to rounding up any Devils who linger outside the warehouse they're meeting in while the rest of her team focuses on isolating and arresting the ones inside. Smooth.

But really, it goes like this: The Devils know better, Mirembe and the rest of the team get caught in a shootout, and Jesse and Genji are immediately overwhelmed. Jesse exhausts his ammo in the retreat, forced into close quarters while trying to cover Genji, and a bullet hits Genji's arm, right in between where his _fancy_ new armor is clasped in place. Both of them watch in surprise as it sparks violently and Genji is forced to drop his sword. He just stands there, staring down at it in apparent shock until Jesse snaps _let's go_ , jolting him back from wherever he was. He snatches up his sword in his other hand and they run, kicking up clouds of dirt as they go.

They end up in a dingy gas station that hasn't been used in ages, a mile out from where they'd started. The prices outside aren't even close to accurate and the windows are all boarded up tight, trapping the smell of must and gasoline inside. Jesse pulls his bandana over his face while his eyes water. Maybe The Devils had once used the station as storage, but that's a time long past. Jesse goes behind the counter and shoves aside some broken tiles on the floor with his foot to make a place to sit. Genji's chosen a spot on the adjacent wall, still in Jesse's sight if he turns his head enough.

For a while, Jesse just allows himself the luxury of shutting his eyes. Once all the  dust finds a new place to settle, he tugs the bandana down again and simply breathes. He's exhausted, but he's not sure he could sleep now even if he wanted to; there's too much suspense still in the air, too much to be unsure about, and if Jesse lets himself think about anything that's happened — the way things turned out, the way the fight went sour — he's going to get angry.

So he doesn't think about it. Instead, he runs his right hand over his face and says, "Genji."

A bird shrieks outside, muffled behind the patchwork wood laid over the windows. Genji, however, doesn't respond.

"Your arm."

Nothing.

"Y'gotta let me at it."

Genji sits mutely in his corner, his good hand cradling the fraying bits of his other arm. Wires spit from a shattered panel, knocked askew from the bullet and then made worse sometime in the midst of their hasty getaway. He makes for a rigid silhouette. If Jesse didn't know better, he might think Genji is turned off somehow — or broken.

Sweat gathers at the nape of Jesse's neck. He tips his head back to rest against the wall. Sighs.

"You damn well know you ain't gonna be any use like this."

Jesse puffs out a breath when there's no sign of an agreement on the horizon. He gets to his feet, stretches himself out, and brushes bits of tile off his pants; he doesn't miss how Genji stiffens, either. But Jesse's too frustrated, too tired to deal with playing nice.

"I ain't dying 'cause my partner don't wanna take care of himself," Jesse says firmly, taking the necessary steps to close the distance between them, kneeling at the very boundary of Genji's personal space. "C'mon."

There's a long pause. Genji doesn't tilt his visor to look at him. Genji doesn't speak. Genji doesn't move aside from turning _just_ enough to allow Jesse a marginally better look at the way his arm angles wrong. Joint? Circuits? Jesse can't tell if it's totally nonfunctional or just needs someone to pop something in the right place again. The panel is trashed, he knows. So Jesse reaches, pulls the panel off the rest of the way.

He reels back when Genji punches him square in the face.

" _Fuck_ —" Jesse clutches his nose, feeling warm, wet blood pool into his palm. A press of his fingers confirms that his nose might very well be broken. He coughs, spits off to the side, and tames the nausea from the pain while he tries to set his nose straight. His drawl is nasal the next time he speaks: "Was that just reflex or somethin' you wanted to do?"

"No," Genji says immediately, chest heaving, once again holding his arm. Something is heavy under the electronic waver, but Jesse's too busy worrying about the blood pouring out of his nose to bother paying attention.

To think, this was how they'd ended up — pinned down in an abandoned gas station, surrounded by people _waiting_ for the chance to pick them off. Genji's arm is fucked and now Jesse's face is fucked. Under most circumstances, it wouldn't be anything more than a stroll in the park, but not done like this, and not with a cyborg who Jesse is pretty sure has been holding his breath for the past ten minutes.

"Alright," says Jesse slowly. He sniffs, tastes the blood, and spits again. The panel he'd pulled from Genji's arm is on the dusty ground now, dropped when he'd been surprised by the fist meeting his face. "Don't punch me this time."

Genji doesn't say anything, but he also doesn't move when Jesse guides him to turn his arm over so he can take a peek. The exposed inside of Genji's arm is filled with wires pretending to be nerves, technology playing at biology. It's not _terribly_ different than his own arm, Jesse decides, glancing at his own metal arm. Things are mostly in the same places, it just looks far more advanced. He recognizes some parts; he thinks back to the diagram that Angela had shown him, so long ago. Too bad he doesn't remember shit from it.

Jesse sniffles, nudging his face against his taut shoulder to smear still-dripping blood away. Genji continues staying stock-still and that bothers him. Always bothers him, really. He's a little worried he's going to get a snap punch to the ribs.

He presses a thumb against a thin wire in the inside crease of Genji's elbow; Genji flinches, and Jesse slips it out a little further. The protective hold Genji has on his arm loosens all at once, a stunned, trembling inhale hissed from beneath his visor. The arm drops, dangling limply when Genji moves his other hand away.

"You made it go numb," Genji mutters. The fingers he has control over clench into a tight fist.

"It wasn't numb before?" Jesse doesn't look up from the fraught, wire-tangle mess.

"No."

 _Well,_ Jesse doesn't say, _at least it doesn't hurt anymore, right?_ Instead, he gives a noncommittal noise and fiddles with the same wire. The synthetic muscle his fingers brush against makes for a strange texture, fibrous and thick, and Jesse pushes the wire into its rightful place again. Genji jerks back when Jesse tugs lightly on another, thicker group of cords.

"You feel that one?"

"You have no idea what you're doing," Genji snaps flatly.

"Sure I do," Jesse lies.

It takes the better part of an hour for Jesse to get Genji's arm back to even a fraction of its usual working ability and even longer than that to get the taste of blood out from the back of his throat. He wishes he had some water and thinks that maybe if he looked hard enough he could find some old bottles, but he doesn't trust this place enough to drink anything that comes from it, packaged or not. He flicks his communicator's beacon on so that the other team will be able to track them down once they've handled their end of the shootout. He leaves the communicator on the top of the counter next to the old register, the flashing light on it easy to see in the dark.

Now, it's a waiting game.

Jesse finally slumps against the wall next to Genji once it's all over with, picking dried blood from his face and then from the back of his hand. Genji is still curled up tight, his arm fixed imperfectly and temporarily, but his shoulders and chest are moving as he breathes, slow and even,  now. Jesse likes him better when he's not imitating a statue.

"When Commander Morrison told us where we were going," Genji starts suddenly. Jesse nearly jumps before he grumbles a halfhearted _go on_ , but he's got the feeling Genji would've kept on whether he invited it or not. "You recognized it."

"I grew up 'round these parts, is all." It's not really the answer Genji's looking for, but Jesse doesn't care to offer up anything else and just snuffs to get blood out from his nose and throat.

Genji shifts his elbow until he can rest his arm gingerly against the knee he has pulled up into the bulk of his body, looking off to the side where an old register's collecting dust. Jesse fidgets, itchy and restless; all of the previous exhaustion is gone up in flames. The gas station isn't such a bad place to be stuck — it's dark, but that means it's shaded; it's cluttered, but that means there's cover. Mirembe and her team will come pick them up in time, but until then — until then, they have to wait. Briefly, the idea that she might not make it out slips into Jesse's mind and is dismissed just as quickly. Of all the people to take her out, it's sure as hell not going to be at the hands of The Devils.

Jesse moves again, puts both legs out and settles, then re-settles, and finally, needing to do _something_ , he explains in a rush, "I think it's Deadlock. The reason the sting didn't work. How they knew what we were doin' before we did it. I think it's 'cause of The Deadlock Gang."

There's a beat. Then, "You spoke of Deadlock before."

"Did I?"

"While you visited me in the infirmary," Genji reminds him, irritation building in his tone.

Jesse recalls a brief exchange later on in their conversations — mentioning how he'd grown up in the Southwest, where the Deadlocks used to run things. He can't remember how much he talked about then, doesn't know how much Genji knows, so he says, "Yeah. Right. I just think that 'cause of what happened to The Deadlock Gang way back, the rest of the groups 'round here know better. They shouldn't've tried to pull another sting like that."

"Was the plan the same?"

"I dunno. Maybe. I wasn't a part of things the first time."

Genji looks at him again and this time, Jesse looks back, eyes flitting over the green glow of the visor.

"You know a lot for someone who was not a part of it," Genji notes.

Jesse laughs, a little harsh and a lot gross from the blocked up part of his nose. He cringes slightly at the pain in his face from it all, sniffing. "I don't know how exactly they planned it out. I wasn't in Overwatch back then."

"But you were in The Deadlock Gang."

There's no hesitation in the way Genji says it. Jesse isn't surprised that he hit the nail on the head. It's not like it's a secret, or even anything worth knowing in the first place. Still, he takes his time replying, scratching lightly at his jaw before he answers.

"I'm not real ashamed about it, that ain't why I didn't say nothin'. I just didn't see any point — 'til now, I guess. Kinda starts to matter once all the people who wanna shoot you only got the guns to shoot you with 'cause some years ago the best in the business turned into a cautionary tale." Jesse tuts, adding with a deprecating tone: "Bigger they are, harder they fall."

He watches Genji consider all of this, the way his chin is tipped upwards. He's not worried about what Genji's going to think of him. They're both criminals. They're both working with Overwatch. It doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything.

"And you think that Overwatch used the same strategy for The Devils that was used before?" Genji asks at last.

"I'd bet good money on it," Jesse says immediately. "Most of the Deadlocks got arrested 'cause of a sting. And that's what they wanted us to do here, right? A sting leadin' to a bunch of arrests leadin' to all of this." He takes his hat off, tossing it onto the floor next to him to wipe sweat away from his forehead. "Just a bunch of scraps for 'em all to fight over. What a shit first mission."

"And here I thought it was going so well," Genji says, somehow managing to sound even more unenthused than Jesse, who almost laughs at it.

"Last op I was on, couple weeks back? It went off without a hitch." Jesse sighs. "If only the rest of 'em were that easy. But that'd be askin' too much of the world, I s'pose."

"You suppose."

"I _suppose_."

They lapse into silence. Not for the first time,Jesse's left wondering what's on Genji's mind. He could be thinking about the fact that Overwatch seems to be particularly keen on recruiting people from organized crime groups. Could be he's thinking that Jesse's an idiot for not speaking up before about what a stupid idea this was — Jesse'd agree with him there. If he'd known sooner that this was in the works, maybe things would've turned out differently. Maybe not. Hindsight makes everything easier.

Jesse's scattered frustration and lacking patience make the gaps in their interactions impossible to handle. He presses fingers into his legs one after another in a disjointed rhythm before he gives up and reaches into the pouch resting on his hip, digging around the unorganized thing until he finds what he's looking for: one of the few, single-wrapped cigars he keeps on his person. With a fair amount of dedication, Jesse picks at the plastic with pursed lips until it tears open.

He feels more than sees Genji paying attention to him, and when he procures a lighter, he's pretty sure he'd be able to hear Genji's disapproving scoff from a mile away. Jesse bites the cap of the cigar until he's able to pull it free and spits it out after, flicking some stray bits away until he's satisfied. He glances over as Genji makes another disgusted noise.

"You ain't a smoker?" Jesse guesses. He lifts the lit cigar to his lips and inhales the familiar comfort, the smoke soaking through the stale smell of the building.

"Doctor's orders," Genji replies, succinctly. He tilts his head sidelong in a way that Jesse is starting to learn to interpret as either challenging or sardonic. Hard to tell which.

"Oh- _ho_ , then."

Genji turns away.

(Jesse does at least make it a point to exhale in the opposite direction.)

The sun streaming through the slivers of space between the windows' boards slowly but surely starts to fade. The orange tinge to it tells Jesse without even having to look at the time that dusk's starting to set in. Dust motes swirl among the smoke and light, and the nagging prickle begins again beneath his skin — maybe The Devils are better than they thought, maybe everything's gone sideways after all. He worries the end of the cigar with his teeth, tense despite himself. His eyes wander. The way Genji's sitting, the light peeking into the room gleams along the edge of his injured arm. Wires are tucked haphazardly inside of the shattered space, a MacGyvered mess that Jesse almost feels a little bad for even attempting in the first place.

He pulls his gaze from Genji's arm to look at his visor instead, studying him intently.

"Hey." Jesse wipes a speck of tobacco off his tongue with a finger. "Back when we got jumped. You really thought you could take on the whole of 'em at once?"

And of course he's talking about how instead of falling back with him, Genji had rushed _forward_. How he'd been forced to frantically try to cover one man with a sword against an entire posse with _guns_. How the reason he'd run on empty himself was because he'd been trying to keep Genji from getting shot to hell. How it took Genji getting shot anyway for him to come to enough goddamn sense to finally follow Jesse out of there. It wasn't like Jesse hadn't noticed Genji's carelessness, but there'd been more pressing matters at hand — specifically, the consequences of that carelessness.

"That's none of your business," Genji tells him.

"Like hell it isn't!" Jesse sputters instantly. "You took a fuckin' bullet for no good reason. Lucky it didn't hit somethin' more important."

Genji whirls around, jostling his arm in a way that looks like it must hurt but he either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

"What does it matter? Broken parts can be replaced, the same as any other machine." Though Jesse can't see it he can hear clear as day the way Genji grits his teeth against several flavors of hatred, some of which Jesse thinks he might even recognize.

Jesse's face does something that hurts his nose. "It matters 'cause you're my damn partner, _partner._ Throwing yourself in front of the barrel of a gun's all well and good if you can deal with it, but when it's twenty of 'em and I can't watch your back, what d'you expect?"

" _Nothing_." The word is thrown at him with a serrated edge as something in Genji begins to whirr softly, breaking the otherwise relative quiet around their voices. "I expect nothing. Not from you. And as I have said before, you would do well to expect very little from me."

There's a strange sort of vertigo to it all, and Jesse realizes too late that it's because he's been here before, leaping without looking, being reckless for the sake of it. Chewed out by people who put their necks on the line for him and all of his dangerous pitfalls. He flexes the fingers of his left hand and takes a lengthy drag of his cigar using his right, eventually dropping both hands to the floor and chewing bit by bit on the cigar itself.

"I get it," Jesse says, around the cigar — a talent borne of practice. "I get it better than anybody else. See, when I got dragged outta the Deadlocks, they told me it was this or prison. But that ain't much of a choice now, is it? I was spittin' mad about it, but it beat getting locked up." He took the cigar from his mouth, peering closely at the glowing end. "I'm not telling you we're the exact same, 'cause that'd be a boldfaced lie. But I meant it before, that I wanna make it work."

At that, Genji leans back as if struck. His faceless glare doesn't waver for a second, impending, but he says nothing. Just glares and clenches and unclenches his good hand where he has it resting in his lap.

"So maybe don't get yourself killed, s'all I'm sayin'." Jesse pushes a metal finger against the burning ash, letting it fall to the side before he lifts the cigar to his lips again. "Or next time, gimme some warning. I'll bring more bullets."

Genji’s whirring steadily increases in volume, then slowly tapers off until all that's left is what they had to start with: Jesse’s breathing, Genji’s not-breathing, the occasional shriek from a bird outside. Hawk, probably.

Jesse is about to break the uncomfortable silence when Genji inhales, slow and deep, then lets out a long sigh. He looks down at his ruined arm. "I will consider it," he concludes, surprisingly mild.

It's saying something that that's the best thing Jesse's heard all day, but in his defense, it's been a pretty shitty day even by his standards. He takes Genji's response as the little victory it is, though; Jesse nods once, decisively, and lets himself relax if only for a second. He reaches, grabs his hat still on the floor and drops it back on his head, straightening the brim.

Jesse almost doesn't notice when the slow flash of the communicator changes to a faster pulse. He scrambles to his feet and snags it off the counter, barely avoiding dropping his cigar in his haste.

He holds his breath and presses _answer_.

"Agent McCree," he says.

"Good, you're alive." Mirembe's voice crackles over the line. Jesse breathes out. "We're on the way."

Jesse warns her about the possibility of Devils still roaming around, but Mirembe's tone when she answers tells him that he might just be wrong about that. It's a quick conversation, nothing more than verifying their position, and Jesse's got enough pent-up agitation still in him that he's half-tempted to send the communicator flying once he's done with it as some final last word against the whole situation.

In the end, he lays the communicator on the floor with care, glancing to Genji.

"Here," he says to Genji, tugging off the bandana around his neck as he kneels. "Lemme tie this 'round your arm. No way that panel's in any shape to go back on."

He gets what he's pretty sure is a skeptical look for his efforts. Jesse can't really blame him considering the previous work he'd done, but Genji ultimately extends out his arm and lets him. He's not expecting the amount of relief he feels in response.

Jesse is careful about it, gently taking the bandana and tying it around the opposite side of Genji's arm so that the wide side of the cloth sits right on top of the frayed wires and damaged armor. Jesse straightens the bandana until he's sure Genji's arm is as protected from prying eyes as it's going to get, all of the injury hidden well beneath the worn pattern. He smooths his thumbs along the edges of it, to make sure it lays flat and then drops his hands altogether.

He exhales the smoke only when he's standing and he's taken the necessary steps away from Genji. He drops the cigar onto the dirty tiles and crushes it out, digging his heel into the end until there's nothing left, and then he leans down to snag the communicator from the floor.

"Let's get the hell outta here," Jesse says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * sorry for the wait! dishonored 2 happened, then holidays, then new semester at school... and a couple of other mcgenji related writings, which'll be posting in the next couple days.  
> 
> * trivia of the chapter: the scene with genji's arm was actually written months ago and i was dying for the chance to use it :')  
> 
> * thanks everyone who's stuck with us throughout it all, this fic is still a huge undertaking for the both of us and it's really awesome that people seem to like reading it as much as we like writing it!!  
> 
> * follow us on twitter for updates & Other Stuff o/ apocryphic is [@irlwolves](http://twitter.com/irlwolves) and gee is [@irlharpy](http://twitter.com/irlharpy)!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did u guys know gee is wonderful

On the evac, Jesse takes the same seat as he did before, at the back and separate from the rest of the team. No one says a word to him as he passes by, whether it's because of their collective exhaustion or the fact that Genji is there and walking close behind him is up for debate. He sits heavily and immediately regrets it as his stomach churns and the inside of the shuttle spins precariously. Exhaustion and a broken nose would've been the least of his problems, several years back. _Must be going soft_ , he thinks, strained but still more than a little wry, and shuts his eyes. Breathes.

In the time it takes him to settle, Genji, who had no doubt been watching with some kind of trepidation, rigidly lowers himself into the seat beside him. Jesse lets that simmer for a moment, then cracks an eye open. Genji has got his bad arm to him and is assumedly staring off into space, if the way his visor is facing is anything to really go by (truth be told, Jesse has his doubts sometimes). Jesse inspects his bandana that's still tied around Genji's arm. It hasn't slipped or come loose, showing nothing of the damage beneath, and Genji himself doesn't seem to have anything to say; with his interest satisfied, Jesse lets both eyes fall closed again as the propulsion systems kick on and the soft conversations between other agents begin to drift into the background.

It's crap as far as rest goes. Every bump and jolt knocks Jesse awake again, keeping him drowsy but progressively more annoyed. Each time he opens his eyes, he's greeted by a different scene, half-hidden from just beneath the brim of his hat — two agents sharing a small tablet with a set of earphones split between them; Mirembe with her head resting against her seat, looking out the window pensively; an agent carefully peeling away the blood-soaked gauze on their side, dark grit clearly visible where it still hangs onto the wound.

Eventually someone thinks to turn on a biotic field and the air quickly fills with its particular atmosphere, reminiscent of a cooling salve. Jesse's nose stops aching with every other beat of his heart, but next to him, Genji flashes bright green and seems to only get wound tighter.

Jesse keeps him in the corner of his eye, more inclined to forego sleep now that pain is out of the way. If Genji were anyone else, he'd nudge his knee against theirs as a casual gesture of goodwill and camaraderie, but he's pretty sure that wouldn't have the effect he's going for here. He debates inwardly, sniffing past the lingering smell of blood in his nose, before straightening up in his seat to fish around in his pouch.

He catches Genji turn to look at him as he produces a pack of cards, and waves them at him lightly. The box is torn and battered, discolored with age and held more or less together by the indulgence of some kind of higher power and a whole lot of masking tape.

"Feel like killing time?" Jesse asks. He keeps his voice low, but he's not worried about disturbing anyone. Everybody seems occupied with their own business, and anyway, they're not the ones he's inviting. "Got enough cards for blackjack."

The question hangs in the air unanswered for a beat, and then Genji says, "Your cards are falling out."

He's already working on collecting the ones that have slid out from the bottom of the box, like they always do. "Yeah, figured. C'mon, table's over there."

Jesse scoots into one side of the booth while Genji does the same on the other, the shelves around the table sporting an empty coffee machine and a few photos taken during missions by various agents. It's a stark contrast to Blackwatch transport, which tends to be smaller and emptier and without amenities. Something about never leaving a trace. Fine by him; Jesse's not one for sentimental photographs.

Jesse shuffles the cards, knowing he's being watched closely. He doesn't try anything clever, though he's sorely tempted.

"What are we betting?" Genji asks as Jesse moves to distribute their first cards, but stops him with a sharp gesture. "I will deal," he adds.

The latter is not a question, and rather than put time and effort into arguing, Jesse taps his cards thoughtfully against the table top before handing them over. It takes him a few seconds, but Genji is still amazingly deft even with just one hand as he sets the deck down and to the side in a neat pile and deals — two cards each, one face up and one face down.

Jesse sucks his teeth. "Hadn't thought that far ahead."

"Why not? Do stakes frighten you?"

And if that's not mean as hell, the way he says it, Jesse's not sure what is. He leans over the table with his elbows propped, claiming a wide space just shy of crossing over into Genji's side of the booth. He's being baited, he knows. Genji's dangling the taunt out over his head expecting him to jump for it. Maybe he will. Jesse can't say he's not a gambling man, but he wonders whether Genji knows that or if he's just taking shots in the dark.

Jesse rubs his jaw, which rasps where he hasn't shaved since they left, once and then twice, flicking his gaze back to Genji as he picks up his cards — seven and two. Genji's got a ten and something else.

"Hit me," Jesse says. Genji skims a card off the top of the deck and slides it over. Jesse adds it to his hand, mind working.

Seven, two, four.

"Depends on the kinda stakes you got in mind," he decides.

Genji doesn't seem deterred. He holds his injured arm close to his body as he reaches for another card himself, the rest of his cards left on the table before he picks all three up again. He surveys his hand, expectedly impassive, though maybe a little dimmer than usual. Jesse doesn't budge.

"Information, of course," Genji answers finally.

Jesse presses his lips together thoughtfully, not taking his eyes off his cards. "S'that all?"

"Do you think I have something _else_ to offer?"

The words burn, but Jesse had been the one to ask first. Deserved or not, he feels needled and frowns.

"Don't suppose so," he answers. "Don't mean I'm all for it, though."

"A shame. You did not strike me as the type to back down from a challenge."

Genji doesn't _sound_ at all disappointed, and it spurs a vague irritation in Jesse. A rebuttal begins to form on his tongue, but he tries not to let it get to him, rolling his shoulders back and leaning into his seat. Playing a friendly game of blackjack against a man who Jesse can hardly read on a good day is probably not the best idea, but he's been up against worse odds in the past.

"Hit me," he says instead.

Genji gives him a long look, as if he's winding up for something, but ultimately just gives a small shrug of his good shoulder.

"Very well."

He slides Jesse another card.

Seven, two, four, _eight_.

Jesse lays his cards flat and splayed out on the table for Genji to see, triumphant. After a second, Genji drops his own cards to reveal a ten, six, and four. Jesse's not quite able to keep the grin off his face.

"Again," Genji demands, and starts quickly gathering cards.

So they go again.

The next round is Genji's when Jesse busts, overshot by five. It isn't cockiness that loses him the round, but rather, a well-placed comment from Genji ( _is your confidence in your first win so flimsy that you have to play this safely?_ ), said so casually and tinged with just enough complacency. It goads Jesse into the card that pushes him over twenty-one, and the loss stings.

"Could've just played Go Fish," Jesse muses with practiced patience while Genji tilts his chin up slightly, the suggestion of him looking down his nose at his opponent so blatant that he doesn't need to say a thing.

They fall into a pattern, swapping wins back and forth. Each time Jesse wins, he smiles and savors it, but Genji's success is always followed by a flourish of cards laid dramatically to the table and swept Jesse's way.

Then Genji wins twice in a row, then three times, then four. Each round is close and drags out a bit longer, but all are undeniably in Genji's favor. Jesse shuffles the deck and eyes him before handing it back, not at all fond of this turn of events.

"What're you up to?" Jesse asks skeptically.

Genji deals.

"Winning," he tells Jesse simply. He takes his time picking up his cards, holding them loose and slightly sideways in his hand.

Jesse's beaten by a perfect twenty-one against his own unfortunate twenty-four. He drags his hand over his face and exhales.

"I think I'm done here," he announces, tossing his cards to the middle of the table. Not even the fact that he'd dodged having to cough up is a consolation. A loss is a loss is a loss, regardless of the stakes, and he doesn't like _losing_.

Genji slides his cards over and gets up from his seat. "You would have lost Go Fish too," he remarks as he passes.

Jesse takes his time getting the cards back in the box.

The rest of the flight goes much the same. Jesse plays a crossword on his tablet once he's back in his chair, ends up stumped, then deletes the app in a fit of protest. He peels off his battle-worn chestpiece eventually, undoing the buckles and clasps so he can slip it off his shoulders. He gives it a careful once-over. Places where bullets glanced off the armor are scarred, and there's one or two that dug in and made a home.

He's tempted to try to pry them out with a knife, but it's a lost cause anyway. He'll have to get another from Reyes at some point — or borrow an Overwatch uniform, but Jesse would almost rather just take the next set of bullets.

Feeling free to breathe, he absently rubs circles into the muscle on the inside of his left forearm. He remembers the give as he'd wrenched off the ruined strip of Genji's armor, tracing the sharp angles of his own prosthetic thoughtfully. It probably wouldn't hurt to peel away the outer layers of metal, but he knows there has to be artificial pathways between nerves there, tucked away on the inside. That could hurt. _Would_ hurt.

He drops his hand and stops thinking about it.

There's a small welcome party waiting as they touch down. Amari's there, her blue coat flared out and flapping in the wind. A few agents mill around, waiting to put everything with the transport in order again once it lands.

Everyone files out; Jesse watches all the agents salute Amari as one before she and Mirembe head towards the main building on the base, no doubt to discuss what went wrong and in how many ways. Jesse could've answered all that for them in a heartbeat, but it's for the best that he's not someone with debriefing duty this time. He'd already filled Mirembe in on his and Genji's experience before they'd even left the dust bowl. She could handle the rest.

He spots Genji walking away, in the general direction of the medbay wing. While Jesse knows he should follow if only to get something from Angela to help with the ache coming from his nose, returning now and radiating outwards without a biotic field to hold it at bay, there's other things he wants more — like food, and a shower, and to _finally_ get some damn sleep.

Angela might kill him later when she finds out that Jesse's fucked up Genji's arm, but at least Jesse'll die with a full stomach.

There's pockets of people here and there as he heads around to the kitchen. More than once, someone cringes at him. Considering his face is beginning to feel more like it's crookedly tacked on than anything, he can only imagine what it looks like. Generously considering three protein bars a full meal after surveying his options, Jesse shoves full bites in his mouth despite the pain, only taking a quick detour to his room to drop off his gear and get some clean clothes. By the time he makes it to the showers, he's polished off the last bar and is feeling a little more like a person again.

Steam fills the cramped space, saturating the air. The water's hot enough to hurt but Jesse's got a lot of mission to scrub from his skin and doesn't want to risk getting so comfortable that he falls asleep on his feet. He decides to keep his face out of the spray as much as possible, and is only satisfied once he's probably a little raw and what he sees swirling down the drain runs clear of dirt and blood.

Jesse catches sight of himself in the mirror afterwards as he's drying off, unsurprised but morbidly impressed all the same. No wonder he'd been getting stares — deep bruises rest beneath both of his eyes and the swelling around his nose is far from pretty. It looks like the skin was broken where Genji's knuckles grazed against it. There's tracks of remaining blood, most still more or less crusted on while a defiant stream is working on running over his upper lip. He delicately tries to wipe it away with the back of his hand and grimaces, not particularly keen on pressing down too hard against anything. He dresses quickly, then grabs a wad of standard issue, single-ply toilet paper to staunch the flow.

He touches feather-light at the ruined bridge, turning his head this way and that, analyzing the damage.

"Had worse," he mumbles to himself.

He replaces the wad of toilet paper, just in case, then drags his feet back to his room with his hair still damp, exhaustion biting at his heels. The bedframe shivers when he drops right into the bunk like a dead weight, nothing more than a man-shaped heap on top of all the blankets. The dirty bundle of clothes he'd had on before fall to the floor, forgotten for the moment and a problem to deal with in the future.

Jesse's eyes focus and unfocus on the painted landscape hanging on the wall. Clouds and trees and grass all blend into a blur of green and blue and white in his bleary vision. It looks a bit like Zürich. It sure sounds like an Overwatch idea to have somebody paint a nice picture of the base's location. Real _idyllic_ of them.

The painting's alright, Jesse decides as he rolls over and turns off the lights, but it's no desert sunset.

 

* * *

 

 

The base is more populated than it has been in a while, but it's still nowhere near the bustling headquarters that it used to be. Once upon a time, the mess hall would've been full. Now, it's still only a few groups of agents that seem to know each other already. Most of them seasoned, the greener ones huddled together like lemmings.

Jesse sips his coffee and props his feet up on the chair opposite him. The white noise of scattered conversations around is good enough for ambience and, unlocking his tablet, he scrolls briefly through snippets of media and clickbait headlines, not looking for anything in particular. _Biotic technology in broader use — recent nanomachine research — Overwatch releases statement — new climate discoveries in Antarctica —_

Another cup is set on the table in front of him, the aroma of the tea in it impossible to ignore. Jesse glances up to see Amari waiting.

"Here I was thinking you'd be all booked up today," Jesse says, grinning. He pushes his tablet away.

"Who told you I wasn't?" she asks, _tsk_ -ing at him. With a little shove, she pushes his feet out of the chair.

Jesse's boots hit the floor with a loud smack, spurs jingling cheerfully. "Figured you'd be busy, what with HQ being so crowded."

Her laugh is genuine as she sits down, but the tired smile she gives after doesn't quite reach her eyes. Jesse doesn't point it out, only watching expectantly as Amari wraps her fingers around her own drink.

"Angela told me to remind you of your appointment later," Amari begins, lifting her cup to her lips.

Jesse wrinkles his nose, which instantly reminds him that it _still hurts_. He'd taken medication for it after he'd woken up, but it'd barely made a dent. "I didn't make any appointment."

"She made one for you," Amari says sagely, amusement clear in her tone.

"Oh." Yeah, sounds like Angela. "I'll head over after lunch."

"Will you?"

"Cross my heart."

Amari appears dubious at his promise, which he supposes is called for. He's missed appointments in the past, most of which he'd never scheduled in the first place. Angela probably looks after him more than he looks after himself.

They take sips of their respective drinks, a content silence falling between them.

It feels like a lifetime since they had a chance to sit down together and just _talk_ ; it'd been a much more frequent occurrence before Hanamura. Funny, that somehow he and Amari had managed to hang out most often when Jesse was working in an entirely different division. Ever since being tossed into Overwatch's jurisdiction and subsequently having Genji assigned as a partner, Jesse's kept to himself. He doesn't feel lonely, exactly — just a little out of his element.

"Heard from the boss man lately?" Jesse asks, raising his eyebrows in curiosity.

Amari pauses in the middle of lifting her cup. "Jack or Gabriel?"

"The one who asked me about you when I checked in this mornin'," Jesse says into his mug, hiding his grin from sight yet not quite managing to disguise it in his voice.

She almost manages to keep her face blank, but the way her gaze flicks down to her drink is a nice tell. "Gabriel and I spoke earlier." She takes a sip, eyes closing as if savoring the warmth, before she adds, "He's returning to the headquarters soon."

Jesse blinks, his teasing forgotten for the moment. "He didn't say nothin' to me about that."

"I suspect it slipped his mind," Amari says mildly. "He's been preoccupied lately."

As far as he knows, there's no big Blackwatch plans that should be distracting Reyes enough that he'd forget to tell Jesse that he's coming back to the Swiss headquarters. He sifts through any and all possible hints Reyes might've dropped during their conversation. They hadn't discussed anything too in-depth, and Jesse had relayed exactly how things had gone. Reyes sounded agitated when he'd responded: _I would've let you head the operation._

"It's weird, being outta the loop," Jesse tells her eventually.

"Gabriel had you working with him for months on end." She sounds sympathetic at least, even if she's shifting the topic to keep Jesse from sulking. "Consider this a vacation."

"After that crapshoot in Socorro? Yeah, feels like I need one." Jesse slouches against his seat. "Wasn't much of a mission. Felt more like getting tossed into somethin' nobody was prepared for."

Venting his frustrations about Overwatch's decision-making to Overwatch's second-in-command isn't the smartest thing he's ever done, but he's never watered down his complaints in the past. It's one thing to ramble on about it all to Amari; he can't imagine having this conversation with Morrison. The chance that Jesse wouldn't manage to bite his tongue is way too high for his liking.

"We assumed too much when we thought that something tried and true would be best," Amari says, rueful. "I spoke with Mirembe… despite the operation succeeding in its objectives, however poorly, she seems to share your opinion." She peers at Jesse a little closer and her eyes flash, though not severely. "But she was not as blunt about it."

He flushes slightly, suitably chided, but not enough to stop talking. "Yeah, well. Don't see why I had to be the one to get sent over there. Someone should've asked me first. It never would've gone to hell then, 'cause I would've told everybody it'd go belly-up."

"I don't disagree." She sighs. "There is a lot happening right now, Jesse. I promise, no one was out to get you when the decision was made."

"Wasn't sayin' anyone was," Jesse mutters, but he drops it, adding, "Doesn't matter none anyways. What's going on that's got everybody so busy?"

A deeper furrow forms between her brows. Jesse presses his lips together, but doesn't dismiss the question. He waits, patient about it, until Amari finally sets her cup down and puts fingers to her temple. She shakes her head once.

"There are a small handful of reports being sent to us," Amari says, careful about her wording — purposefully vague, or watching what she says, Jesse doesn't know. "We haven't been able to confirm anything, but there is reason to suspect that things may become difficult in the future."

Jesse takes a guess: "Somethin' to do with the gangs?"

"No," she says, but it gets a little smile out of her. "The omnic community in London is trying to settle things with the humans who live there. There are many who are… _resistant_."

It's no secret that humans haven't exactly been keen on omnics in recent history — things have been steadily (slowly) getting better, but there's still plenty people who hold a nasty grudge. Amari's tone isn't condemning, and Jesse knows from past conversations about the first Omnic Crisis that she personally doesn't have particular reservations. But it's another thing to worry about, the idea that tensions might boil over on a larger scale. Nothing good would come of it for anyone involved, human _or_ omnic.

He tugs at a wayward string escaping from the cloth of his sleeve. "Guess that means all hands on deck, then?"

Amari taps the rim of her cup gently, then lifts it for another, short sip of tea before answering. "Somewhat. We've dealt with smaller conflicts before, of course, but we're receiving word out of a particular neighborhood this time."

"A stubborn one," Jesse clarifies.

She sighs. "Very stubborn."

His jaw works a little as, looking down at the remainder of his coffee that's gone cold. People do desperate things when they have a goal in mind. He doesn't see how humans or omnics differ in that regard.

 _It could explain why Reyes is headed back here from wherever he's been keeping busy. Something like building human-omnic tensions would be the thing to drag the old leader of the first Omnic Crisis' Strike Team back to the headquarters_ , Jesse thinks.

"We'll see, I s'pose," he says.

"I only hope it's sooner rather than later." Amari exhales, putting both hands on the table as she stands, then motioning at him to follow. "Come on. You have an appointment, don't you?"

He stares at her. "It ain't past lunch yet."

" _Please_." She snorts. "You won't even think to go and then you will end up putting it aside for another day, and another, and another. Let's go."

Jesse does get up, but only because he knows she's right. "I'm goin'!"

Amari insists on walking with him, and says it's because she doesn't trust Jesse to actually end up there. He puts a hand over his heart and accuses her of thinking wrong of him. She laughs again, and Jesse smiles, just a bit.

Angela's had to fix a broken nose or several for him in the past; this is going to be the most mundane thing in the world for her, but Amari's still standing next to him as if she doesn't trust that he won't bolt at the first sign of having to re-break it — which isn't a problem, really. Jesse can break his nose again by his own damn self.

He's simply not looking forward to being lectured on not ripping random panels off of Genji's very prototypal armor.

"Dr. Ziegler," Amari calls with a swift knock against the metal door of Angela's office.

They have to wait, but not for long. The door comes open to reveal an only slightly frazzled Angela, who takes one look at Jesse's face before she makes a noise that sounds awfully close to someone trying to hide a reaction.

She finally manages to say, "Oh, no," which isn't the worst way Jesse's ever been greeted.

"I know," he says. The swelling has lightened up a little, but even so, he knows it isn't pretty to look at. "It's bad."

"It could be worse," Amari suggests.  

"You should have come to see me as soon as you got back," Angela tells him, ushering him away. Amari trails after, amusement dancing in her eyes when Jesse casts a resigned glance back to her.

Angela gets him settled while Amari leans against the doorframe, raising her brows at him as he kicks a foot lightly against the floor and sits up a little straighter. The smell of biotics fills the room and Jesse lets it soothe him, happy to let the ache in his nose subside.

Just when he thinks he's gotten out of the lecture he's expecting, Angela says, "Genji's arm was in alarming shape when I saw him yesterday."

Jesse shifts. "He got shot."

"Hm." Angela fiddles with something on her screen before returning to him. "Are you still smoking regularly?"

"Not this again —"

"It's a habit you really should get rid of, Jesse," Amari chimes in.

"Listen to Captain Amari if you won't listen to me," Angela says with a click of her tongue.

All Jesse does is sigh in surrender. He should've finished his coffee.

 

* * *

 

 

Genji's arm is repaired faster than Jesse expects. He doesn't see him for a few eventless days, which he tries to enjoy as a vacation like Amari recommended. Jesse keeps reading the news, trying to look further into the situation that could be brewing in London, but can't find anything solid that's not a so-called _opinion_ piece on the situation. He gets bored, keeps looking.

When he and Genji both end up in the training area again at the same time, it's a relief from the dreary idleness.

While at first Jesse's time in Blackwatch was spent unlearning bad habits, Reyes ended up taking a personal responsibility for a good amount of his training. Jesse didn't learn every trick from him (as his history put him in an interesting place as far as _intuitive knowledge_ went) but it isn't like he walked into Blackwatch knowing fifty different ways to put someone on the floor without ever having to draw his gun. He'd learned and learned well, but it took a hell of a lot of time.

Yet despite Reyes' vested interest in teaching him and Jesse's own ability to go head-to-head with most people he's put up against, he doesn't think he'll ever feel prepared for sparring with Genji.

Jesse blocks a jab to his side with his left hand and cringes inwardly at the sharp screech of metal, Genji's knuckles colliding with his palm. The sound doesn't seem to reach Genji, despite how shrill it is. He's lined up for another attack in the space between breaths — Jesse takes it, stifling the little gasp that tries to escape. He sweeps a leg out to catch Genji's ankle and when he's forced to rebalance himself, Jesse lunges and drops them both to the ground.

It's a hard fall and without a kind angle to land on, but they both recover enough to grapple wildly before Jesse gets a good grip on one of Genji's wrists, metal fingers hanging on tight and the gears within his arm locking.

Genji hisses, either in pain or irritation, but it doesn't stop him from drawing his other arm back before Jesse can do anything about it. The blow connects with the center of his chest and knocks all the air he has left out of him in a painful whoosh. He lets go, gasping, and rolls away while he forces himself to catch his very uneven breaths.

"Your round," Jesse says between a cough and a softer, " _ow_."

"You were careless," Genji tells him, already on his feet. He turns his freed arm this way and that, like an afterthought, before returning to a starting position. It looks good as new, none of the armor he'd worn for the mission in place but no wires spilling out of his forearm every which-way.

_Broken parts can be replaced._

Jesse exhales, turns over completely onto his stomach, then briefly rests his cheek against the ground. "Worked, didn't it?" He makes it to his feet and presses his hand against where Genji had hit him in the chest, grimacing. He looks to the side and spits, feeling like he's got a mouthful of dirt. "Don't pull your punches on my account."

"I would never."

"Alright." Jesse huffs heavily, shaking his hands out. "We're burning daylight. Let's go."

So they go again.

This time, Jesse hits the ground hard enough to see stars.

"Holy," he starts with a wheeze, drawing in a great lungful of air while his ribs practically _burn_ with the aftershocks of yet another direct hit, "shit. Gimme a tick."

Genji's visor might be hiding his face but being dropped flat gives Jesse the perfect angle to watch his fingers fold, the joints curling then going lax, every edge of him gleaming in the midday light. Jesse shuts his eyes to focus on getting his stuttering lungs to work with him again. Heat blossoms across his upturned face from the sun, his head pounding.

A moment passes, and then a shadow falls over him. Jesse opens his eyes again to see Genji waiting with an outstretched hand.

"I could fetch Dr. Ziegler for you," he offers.

Jesse doesn't doubt that it's a threat but he thinks he catches an undercurrent of humor too, even in his dazzled, recovering state. He accepts the hand, and is hoisted up mostly by Genji's sheer strength and only a little by his own devices. Something down in his side, deep between his ribs, screams at him. It feels like more than a bruise. In response, Jesse makes an effort to put most of his weight on his other side.

He resists the urge to check himself over. "And have her send me packing for wasting her time? No thanks. She's still heated I didn't come right to her to get my face fixed up before."

He brushes bits of dirt and grass off his pants while Genji steps away. His body language doesn't give any hint of exhaustion; meanwhile, Jesse's about ready to wave a white flag. Only one of them's had a full body transplant to be made into some kind of dubiously labeled _weapon_ , and it sure as hell isn't Jesse.

It takes him a second to realize when Genji extends his hand to him a second time — now holding a familiar bandana out in offer. Jesse blinks at it once, almost like there should be an explanation to go along with its return, but takes it.

"Thanks," Jesse says, sincere. He studies the bandana for a moment, surprised to find himself pleased.

It isn't that he thought he wouldn't get it back — truthfully, he'd hardly thought anything of it since — but there's something nice, somewhere, that Genji thought to return it. And in such nice shape, to boot; the folds are even and crisp. Jesse shoves the bandana into a pocket to be taken out again later when he won't feel bad about replacing the neat creases with wrinkles.

"It was…" Genji seems to search for a word. "Appreciated."

"Well, good." He thoroughly dusts himself off after he stands, clears his throat, resists the itch to rub the pain from his side. "So. Thinkin' I'm gonna hit the firing range before supper rolls around."

"Had your fill of losing today?"

"You know, I think I've had just about enough of losing to you in general," Jesse says, stretching his back out and sounding only slightly like he's complaining. "Here I was about to invite you along. Kick my ass here all you like, it ain't nothing new to me. Now, _shooting_ , though..."

Most of him expects Genji to turn him down for some reason: _not interested, don't care, doesn't matter._ It's a game, regardless — not exactly blackjack, but it could turn out to be something interesting. Another way to kill time. Another way to measure where they stand.

Jesse's expression shifts into a slow grin when Genji says, "I will meet you there."

They part ways. Jesse retrieves his gun, not for the first time lamenting Zürich's lack of a more advanced firing range. Considering some of the upgrades the watchpoint in Russia's gone through, it can't be too much to ask for something a little more decorated. For now, what they've got'll have to do.

He pauses in the doorway on the way out of his room, pulling the bandana from his pocket. One corner is folded down funny thanks to careless way he'd handled it into his pocket, but the rest of the neat folds seem preserved. While Jesse doesn't think it'd be wrong exactly to think that it's _thoughtful_ , he also wouldn't have cared if it was crumpled when Genji gave it back.

Jesse drops the bandana gently on the table next to his bed and fixes the single, awry corner of the cloth before he sets out to regroup with Genji.

The range is blessedly empty outside of the both of them and that leaves them with run of the place, which is when Jesse likes it best — nothing but him and a gun and a whole bunch of things to shoot... _and now Genji_ , he supposes. Not a bad addition, just not who Jesse would have expected himself to be hanging out with, if he'd been asked a couple weeks back. Now, it felt like it could be a new kind of normal.

"Reckon you've never shot something like this," Jesse says, loading Peacekeeper.

"Never," Genji replies in a simpering tone that makes Jesse think maybe his gun's being made fun of.

He looks at him sharply. "Don't you go insulting my piece, now."

Genji doesn't say anything else, which Jesse grimly assumes means that he is, in fact, insulting his piece.

He spies a lone, unspent bullet that had somehow fallen out of the ammo box placed to the side. Leaning over, he pauses to line up his shot, then gives it a solid flick with his finger. The bullet sails through the air in a wide arc before landing back in the box with the rest. Most agents — and most people, at that — have long since moved onto some form of more advanced weaponry by now, including a select few pulse munition prototype. He's not about to start complaining about it — it means that he gets most of the outdated, regular old shit for himself.

The targets are set up already. Jesse could have already shot every one straight through if that was what he was trying to do. Genji damn well should know by now that he can shoot, what with the tricks he pulled trying to keep him from taking another bullet on that last mission. He's not sure why he feels like he's got to make a show of it. Not nerves, that's for sure, but his pride feels awful bruised from their sparring session.

"Taking your time," Genji notes.

Jesse hums. "Patience's a virtue."

"Is it," says Genji, wryly, nothing at all like a question.

So Jesse doesn't waste the effort on providing an answer. He looks at each target he wants to hit, plots it out in his head — right to left, six bullets, six targets. Not even a challenge, especially when they're stationary.

It takes all of a second.

He breathes in — fires all six times, each pull of the trigger followed by a quick adjustment of his aim, nothing more, nothing less — and breathes out again. His ears ring noticeably, even though he'd hardly heard each individual shot, the pain in his side aching bad. Every one of the targets he picked have been shot dead-center, not a bullet out of place.

It would've been more impressive if he'd done that before Genji'd gotten himself shot in the arm, but Jesse lets bygones be bygones and quits thinking so hard about it.

He looks over to Genji.

"So," he says. Smoke rises from the end of Peacekeeper; he puts the barrel near his lips and blows lightly, watching subtly for any reaction. "What'd you think?"

Genji looks out at the targets.

"Large and loud," Genji replies, glancing to Jesse again. His visor brightens the tiniest increment. "My turn."

Jesse double checks to make sure that the gun's empty before handing it over. It's only half a joke when he says, "You know not to point this at me, right?"

"I am aware that I should only point a gun in the direction of someone I intend to kill." Genji's voice is dry, but he takes Peacekeeper from him all the same.

"Congrats, you passed the trigger discipline test." Jesse waves a hand vaguely in the air as if he's about to mimic a cheer, but the motion tugs at his ribs, forcing him to drop his hand. "Seriously, though, don't go shooting nothin' you ain't supposed to."

Peacekeeper doesn't look as strange as Jesse'd expected it to in Genji's hand. He said he'd never shot anything like a revolver before — unless he was pulling Jesse's leg, which was just as likely — but Genji seems to have no problem acclimating to the weight. Good sign. He follows Jesse's earlier example, loading the bullets. The quick way he fills the cylinder has Jesse's eyes narrowing. He doesn't even have to tell him to mind his thumbs.

Nobody shooting a gun like this for the first time aims one-handed, but Genji does it anyway; it could be chalked up to the whole _stronger-than-most-people_ situation, but Jesse wonders.

Then Genji pulls the trigger.

The recoil is controlled, kick minimized. The shot is clean, goes right through a target that's a midway distance from them. Jesse had gone for the ones further back, but Genji either knows his limits or doesn't care to follow Jesse's lead. He has no problem keeping his aim straight, only taking an extra few beats than Jesse to recenter before he fires again. The second bullet hits its mark just as well.

Jesse is getting an inkling that he's been made a fool.

"So you _can_ shoot," Jesse says. He leans into the counter, fiddling with a bullet from the ammo box.

"I never said I could not." Genji fires another shot, unhurried. "You assumed."

There's been a half-rankled, half-satisfied respect growing in Jesse McCree's chest, and it just keeps getting bigger.

"I s'pose I did." He presses the pad of his thumb against the tip of the bullet he's holding, turning his face out towards the targets to keep a rueful smile at bay.

He watches Genji finish up. The last bullets all strike the same target, one after another, as if Genji's concentrated the entirety of his drive on these final shots. Whatever his muscles and flesh are made out of now, it all absorbs the recoil of the gun so well that Jesse can barely see the power behind each pull of the trigger go up Genji's arm. He can remember what the fibers felt like under his fingers — taut, with enough give not to lock up from excess force.

Synthetic muscles or not, it doesn't account for his excellent aim.

Genji hands Peacekeeper over again after slowly lowering his aim again, hardly moving outside of that. Jesse tilts his head in thanks and takes the gun back. Their fingers don't touch, but it's a close thing.

"It wasn't a competition, mind," Jesse says, holstering the gun with a fond little tap.

"Wasn't it?" Genji asks. He moves back again, out of arm's reach.

It was, a little bit — more than a little bit. Jesse doesn't admit to that. He'll dig his own grave, _thank you_. "No," he says, stubborn. He shuffles a boot, heel braced and then toes flat against the ground again. "This is makin' it work, right?"

Genji stares his way for a long few seconds. "What?"

"This is makin' it work," Jesse repeats. "This whole partner thing." Even to his own ears, he sounds ridiculous. But he presses onward with a shrug, arms falling heavily to his sides. "It ain't a competition," he says again, mostly to himself.

An even _longer_ few seconds pass.

And then Jesse's the one staring at Genji.

If he thinks hard enough, he can remember months and months ago, all the way back to an echo of a subdued laugh in a ramen shop while his hat was stolen from his head.

It's nothing like the way Genji laughs now, a sharper edge to the sound and yet unrestrained, fingers hovering at his chest. Jesse can't tell if he's being mocked _again_ or if he's just tickled Genji's tilted sense of humor — he's taken by surprise enough that it doesn't really matter. Jesse's been snorted at and scoffed towards by Genji, for repeatedly good reasons, but he's never been _laughed at._ Not like this.

Overall, it's a riveting experience.

He stands there, blinking and studying the bend of Genji's fingers in lieu of seeing his face, and listens to the softer hitches of breath that signal the coming end.

"Huh," Jesse says, off-kilter and dumbfounded.

Genji's shoulders rise once and then again as he recovers. " _Not a competition,_ " he says, scornful and breathy. Jesse can almost hear a smirk in it.

Before Jesse can form a reply that makes enough sense, Genji takes a couple of steps closer and seems to survey him. His chin tilts as if he's looking for something. Jesse's teeth grind together in the back and wishes he could read him at all.

"You've been favoring your left side since we sparred," says Genji.

Jesse glances down at himself; remembers the connection of Genji's fist with his side before getting thrown the the ground; glances back up. "Yeah?"

"If you are hurt, we should go to Dr. Ziegler."

Jesse's still staring at him, only now it's because he's said _we_.

 _Hell_. He'll take it.

"Uh." He puts his hand against the worst of his soreness, light enough so he doesn't aggravate the pain. "Yeah, let's go."

Genji inclines his head expectantly, and they turn, beginning to walk. They're side by side as they go, with the sun at their backs. The space between them is polite and doesn't get any closer as they cross the yard, eventually disappearing into the base, but it doesn't get any wider, either.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "think we finally made it over that hump, folks. good job everyone" — gee  
> 
> * yes, we saw the comic; no, we're not following it verbatim. hope you'll stick around for the rest of everything though; this fic's story was finalized looong before that comic came out, and we have no intention of shifting our focus. it's kind of an au? but only in the most Detail-y terms.  
> 
> * hit us up on those sweet social media platforms: [irlwolves](http://twitter.com/irlwolves) & [irlharpy!](http://twitter.com/irlharpy)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're interested in a deleted scene from this chapter, read this: [in for a penny](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11844945)

Jesse catches sight of Reyes when walking out of his room and, startled, the first thing that comes out of his mouth is, " _Damn_ , what happened to you?"

"Speak freely, McCree," Reyes replies dryly, pushing off from the opposite wall he was leaning on. "By all means."

The thing is, Reyes looks pretty awful, though not from lack of trying. To an untrained eye the Blackwatch commander probably comes off no different than usual, but it would take more than a shave and a clean set of clothes to hide the deep, shadowed lines under his eyes, making him look older (or his age, maybe, Jesse honestly doesn't know). Jesse wouldn't be surprised if Reyes hasn't slept a wink in a week or more. In one hand he's holding a styrofoam cup half-full of what must be coffee that Jesse can smell strongly even from several feet away. He amends his initial thoughts; more likely than not having slept at all is the possibility that Reyes _has_ slept, but in his office, upright, at his desk. It wouldn't be the first time.

"What's going on?" Jesse says. "Amari told me a few days ago you were on your way back, but I haven't seen you 'round."

"Been busy."

Jesse frowns, a vague sort of unrest taking root between his shoulder blades. "That all? Just _busy_?"

"A certain kind of busy." Reyes brings his drink to his mouth and, with a grimace, downs it in two long, mechanical pulls, then motions at Jesse with the empty cup. Turns on his heel all deliberate and starts walking. For all that he looks exhausted, he keeps his shoulders back and his stride long. "You're involved."

"Oh, boy." Jesse tails a half-step behind him. "How's that?"

He gets a noncommittal noise for his troubles, which means that he'll get a reply that satisfies his curiosity, but not until they're behind closed doors. Jesse simmers over it.

For a while, the only sound is the footfalls of heavy boots and the answering jingle of spurs down one hallway, then another, then another. Jesse's first suspicion at their destination — conference room — is proven wrong when they brush past it without a glance. That means it's gotta be one of two offices: Morrison's or Reyes', and that makes it a _serious business_ sort of deal, which makes that disturbed, restless urge at his back that much louder.

They have to pass the open area of the mess hall to get to the offices. The scattered groups of people, all of them chattering and boisterous, make for an interesting mix of muddled, incomprehensible noise. Reyes leads him through the courtyard, where the breeze is kind enough to cool the growing heat of the day. There's plenty of agents enjoying the weather, laying in the grass or at the various benches scattered around the well-manicured area, but it's a group of three that catch Jesse's eye, and not just because there's a gorilla taking up most of the space there at the table.

With the influx of agents to HQ, Lena Oxton (or Cadet Oxton, freshly approved) and Winston (just Winston) have both been stationed here along with the rest of the green crowd, all of whom are either ranked low enough or fall far enough out of Jesse's zone of interest that he doesn't bother trying to remember who they are. Not that he's particularly buddy-buddy with Lena or Winston, kept apart by a wide span of organizational differences, but it's hard not to know of the pilot who got lost in time and harder still not to be familiar with Winston. Both of them demand a little more attention than the usual Overwatch agent.

But Genji's the reason Jesse glances a few seconds longer than he normally would. He's sitting with them, facing away, looking disinterested compared to the animated way Lena talks with her entire upper body. Winston leans over the table, his mouth moving in obvious response to whatever she's going on about, and then Lena bursts out laughing, just loud enough for Jesse to hear.

He knows that Genji's absence from their own sparring sessions has been due to a recent shift in monitored training, Overwatch wanting Lena's speed against Genji's reflexes. With how much Jesse's practiced against Genji, he has to admit however ruefully that it's probably a better match-up. Winston may very well be in the program too, now that Jesse thinks about it — the three of them are all newer agents without as much experience in the field. Would make sense, he figures. Especially if they're paling around outside of that training.

Jesse realizes he's staring a second too late and snaps his head forward again, eyes resolutely on Reyes' back.

One more hallway and a short elevator ride later and they make it to Reyes' office. Jesse takes the seat across from the desk, Reyes taking the chair behind it with a short exhale. His desk is a mess, piled up with more than Jesse's ever seen on it before, some kept-together heaps even hanging off the side.

"These all reports?" Jesse asks, flicking at a stray, folded-up sheet of paper.

"Not everything," Reyes says.

But that means a good portion of the mess _is_ , which surprises Jesse into a brief silence. That many after-mission reports means that Blackwatch has been doing a hell of a lot, and he can't think of any good reason to have Blackwatch be this active. But it's not as if Reyes has been moving mountains to keep in touch. For all Jesse knows, there might be a hundred and two objectives that've been dealt with between his last conversation with the man and now.

He watches Reyes shove various papers into even more various places before he starts digging through one of his drawers.

"I'm thinking I get what you mean by 'busy' now," Jesse says, settling into his chair.

"There's a lot going on." Reyes' smile isn't particularly happy and doesn't get rid of any of the weary edges on his face.

"No kiddin'."

Reyes finds whatever he's been looking for, then carefully unfolds it onto the space he's cleared; it's a map, Jesse realizes, a top-down view of walls and doors and exits and entrances, and he stares at it uncomprehendingly until it strikes him all at once, and then he glances up to Reyes' face again.

"Hanamura," Jesse says, as simple as that.

And it is. The map spreads out in a rather tight radius from the centerfold: the Shimada Castle and its looming walls, shadowing the streets and alleys. His eyes roam over the rest of the map, looking first at the places he knows and then seeking out what's more familiar and memorable — the rooftops he'd frequented, trying to get an eye for the city; the hotel where he, Amari, and Angela had stayed; the thin alleyway he'd found Genji in.

"The operation is active again," Reyes tells him, drumming fingers on the desk, _one-two-three_. "It was put on hold while Shimada recovered. Considering his progress, it's about time we get the two of you out there to finish it up."

Jesse feels a little like whiplash. Tries not to show it. "We got a team?"

"A small one. Details will be forwarded to you later."

"Small, sure, but it's gotta be more than just me 'n Genji," Jesse prods, wondering. "I've been close enough to know this ain't a two-man show."

Reyes gives him a nod at least, which makes his shoulders fall loose once more. "The Japanese government already knows Overwatch will be there for certain peacekeeping purposes."

 _Peacekeeping_. Yeah. "Right."

"The Overwatch agents that will be with you are your official reason for being there." Reyes almost sounds wry, or maybe he's just annoyed. Jesse knows that frown he's wearing. "Agent Shimada will be taking the lead, and you'll act as his backup. However," Reyes meets his eyes and there is no humor there, or annoyance, or even any exhaustion, just that intensity that always makes Jesse's spine snap a little straighter. "Should you run into any problems, unforseen or otherwise, I expect you'll handle it."

"Naturally, boss."

Jesse had been expecting a bigger briefing — Reyes and Morrison, Genji and him, anybody going with them, maybe Amari. Maybe Angela. Instead, he gets Reyes in his office telling him all of this one-on-one, like there's not really a team at all and it's just Jesse as the only safety net. He's not sure what to think about it, so he doesn't. It's just another item on a long list of new and upcoming things about Overwatch (and _Blackwatch_ , which is even worse) that escape his understanding.

Jesse clears his throat. "So. When’re we leavin'?"

"Soon as possible." Reyes pulls out a datapad and flicks his gaze over it, reading whatever's on the screen before he adds, "You'll be headed to Gibraltar first to rendezvous with the rest of your team, then sent to Hanamura from there once everything's settled."

Jesse blows out a breath — it's a faster turnover than he'd expected. "Genji know yet?"

Reyes starts tapping on the screen in the same rhythm as he had on his desk. "Unless our Strike Commander has neglected to say anything, he should."

The two of them haven't talked really in the last couple days — Genji's been busy with his training partners, and maybe Jesse just doesn't know what to say and can't be bothered to make the effort. They're friendly enough. They nod at each other in the hallways. Hell, sometimes they even meet up on accident throughout the base, swap a couple sentences and not a whole lot more than that, because what's he gonna say? ' _Thanks for hauling me off to the medbay, I owe you one_ '? And besides that, the moment's passed. Jesse's not much of a sparring partner anymore.

Not that he doesn't like Genji. He likes him just fine when they're not getting short with one another. He's only got so much patience on a good day, and now with all the other shit going on in his world it's been running more and more thin.

Jesse looks down at the map again, sees the roads and paths that lead to the ramen shop right outside the Shimada castle. He can't help but wonder how in the hell things'd made more sense back while they were both trying to run circles around the other.

"Y'know," he says, glancing to Reyes again, "Morrison had a fancy 3D model for Socorro's map."

Reyes gives him a look and reaches out with a free hand, still cradling his datapad, just to fold the paper map up neatly and toss it aside. "Morrison's not covering up his projector with overdue payment requests," he grumbles. "Your schedule's been updated. It's a rough estimate, might change."

"Thank you, sir," Jesse says. He'll look later, prepare himself, if only for something to do. His unsettled, nervous discomfort goes nowhere, even with a direction to point the energy. "Keep me updated?"

"As best as I can, McCree." Reyes meets his gaze for the briefest second before nodding, his eyes again on his tablet and the several new messages waiting there. "You're dismissed."

 

* * *

 

 

The day they're due to leave, Jesse makes his rounds. He doesn't have many places to go, but he figures it has to be better than dropping everything and running like he had last time, even if he'd had a good reason to go.

His first stop is Angela.

Overwatch's favorite doctor has been busier than usual with an influx of conference invitations thanks to her recent collaborations with cybernetics experts (for reasons undisclosed to the public despite the fact that Genji's become an open secret to the agents in Zürich). Considering her usual schedule is already packed to the brim, Jesse's not even sure if he'll even find her in her office, but he'd kick himself to Gibraltar and back if he didn't try.

He knocks his knuckles against her office door, shuffles his feet, waits and waits. And then waits some more. He's just about to leave, call it quits and send her the sincerest text he can in the hopes that she doesn't needle him later for it, when the door slides open.

"Angie?" Jesse says, then blinks.

Her hair's loose and _everywhere,_ like she's been running fingers through it, the wild strands backlit by the light from her office. Her jaw is tight and her shoulders are wound taut, as if she is actively forcing herself to stand straight, but she deflates as soon as she sees that it's only Jesse.

"What do you need?" she asks raggedly, not even sounding like herself.

"Nothin', I was just —" _Stopping to say goodbye, wanting to poke my head in, checking up on you._ "What the hell's wrong?"

It comes out more startled than concerned, and Jesse almost apologizes for it, but Angela opens her mouth first. Closes it again. Rubbing her temple firmly, she steps to the side to let him in, so he goes, trying to be patient. Her office is as untidy as it usually is, the television on and playing what looks to be the news with the volume muted, captions running. Jesse doesn't pay enough attention to read them, only listening to the soft _shhhh_ of the door closing behind him and the still softer shuffle of Angela walking past.

"So," he starts. "You first or me first?"

She smiles slightly, looking more pained than anything. "You first."

"You might've heard already. Dunno, communication's been a little..." And he tilts his hand left and right and left and right again, humming uncertainly, before dropping it and surging onwards. "Shimada op's back on. Me 'n Genji're headed out to Gibraltar later. Then to Hanamura."

"So soon?" Angela frowns, and Jesse feels a little bad for having given her something else to worry about.

"Genji's been doing good. Think he might like bein' out in the field more, anyway."

She levels a critical look at him and he reads it clear as day: _He'll_ enjoy _this?_

But it's not a question Jesse can answer, and not one he thinks he can ask the person it's meant for. So he just shrugs and averts his gaze for a split second and moves on. "What about you?" he asks.

He watches while she splays fingers over her desk, scrunching up her face like she doesn't know where to start. Brows drawn tight together, she says, "Amélie Lacroix."

The name he's familiar with, but the woman he barely knows. It could mean a hundred different things, just speaking her name — but Jesse thinks of the news on the television screen and Reyes' tired face and Angela's weariness and already knows full well that it can't be nothing good.

Angela takes a deep breath. "Talon grew tired of trying to get to Gérard, I suppose, with all he's done to disarm them. " She pauses. Visibly swallows. "So. They... took her."

Talon is a threat that everyone is more than aware of, no matter which division, but it's never something that's come up when Jesse's been on missions. Anti-Talon efforts have been relegated to Gérard Lacroix's team in the past, and on occasion, Amari. Reyes hasn't ever assigned him to anything specifically dedicated to handling them and sure as hell nothing with Gérard, who everybody knows has been labeled the terrorist group's least favorite nightmare.

That they've dragged someone innocent into their shit isn't the least bit surprising.

That they managed to get to the wife of the guy in charge of taking them down is —

Jesse wants to ask how it happened, didn't they have security, wasn't she supposed to be untouchable? There's protection for this stuff, he knows. Overwatch has the resources, Overwatch has the _connections_. She never should've been put in danger, especially since he doubts anyone's been sharing any juicy information with her. Nobody in their right mind would give Talon op intel to someone outside that center circle Gérard heads.

Angela's likely thinking the exact same things he is, has probably tried to make sense of it already. He knows that she'd be torn up by anybody in the hands of bastards like Talon, but there's always been an extra admiring note in her voice when it comes to Amélie. All of the times he'd knocked an elbow into her side and teased her for it suddenly feel a little too sharp.

Jesse moves over to her side of the desk and puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezes all gentle. "Things'll turn out," he says, the reply falling flat. He can't promise she'll be okay. He can't even promise they'll get her back.

And he hates that. The whole fucking world's counting on them and they couldn't protect one woman, they couldn't even pull off a sting without the mission going sideways. Amari and Reyes running on fumes, Morrison constantly trying to keep things from falling apart. Something's slipping somewhere, and he doesn't know where. Maybe nobody else knows, either.

Angela reaches up to press fingers over his, a light touch that slides away almost as quickly. He keeps his doubts quiet, far and away from bringing any of it up. It'd be unfair of him to shake her faith now by pressing on anything having to do with Overwatch's recent string of incompetencies. Not like she'd keep quiet about her own skepticism, anyway.

"They will," she agrees, forcing her voice still. He doesn't call her out on the emptiness there. Angela shakes his hand off her shoulder, sits up straight, doesn't quite glance up at him. "Thank you, Jesse. And while on your mission, do take care. Both of you."

This, at least, he has some measure of control over. "I'll be watchin' his back the whole time. We'll be just fine, Angie."

"Of course," she says, clearly unconvinced.

Jesse doesn't look at the television as he leaves, but out of the corner of his eye, it's hard not to notice the picture of Amélie there on the news.

He swings by the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee for Amari, promising that he'll bring her something more high-quality than just the crap from the mess hall when he's back. She takes the cup with a grateful smile and brings up her arms to hug him tightly. He doesn't mention Amélie Lacroix, doesn't demand to know what's going on. He just bites his tongue and puts his arms right back around her and lets the air get pressed out of him. When they break, she says _be safe_ and taps his chin lightly with her knuckles and he grins and shrugs and tells her _oh, always._

Then he heads to Reyes' office.

"All packed?" he asks when Jesse walks through the door.

The first thing he says, "Yeah." The second thing he says, "You didn't tell me nothin' about Lacroix."

Jesse doesn't mean for it to come out as accusatory as it does, but he's only being honest. And Reyes has rarely faulted him in the past for being straightforward with how he feels, but this is a little different. This hits closer to home. So he's expecting the blink and the stare, and he's even expecting the shift in Reyes' posture in his seat, the way he settles forward, elbows on the arms of his chair, like he's waiting for Jesse's argument and already has a response prepared.

"It's not your concern, McCree."

Shut down, right out the gate. Jesse tries not to let the flare of frustration get to him, but he's at the end of his rope here.

"Reckon it's everybody's concern, sir," he says, carefully bringing his tone down to something more sullen. "She might not be an agent, but she's still one of us."

"Everyone who can do something about it knows already," says Reyes.

"And everyone else gets to find out from some damn headline on the news? That ain't gonna fly, boss."

" _McCree_."

That takes the heat out of him. Jesse takes a breath and he looks at Reyes, really _looks_ at him, and he stops altogether. "It wasn't your decision," he guesses.

The silence he gets in response is telling enough on its own. He doesn't need an answer, and Reyes doesn't provide him with one. The commander just folds his fingers together on top of a stack of papers on his desk and shakes his head once, finality in the gesture.

"You've got your mission," Reyes says. "Get it done."

Jesse takes a step backwards and dares one more question. "How long's she been missing?"

There's a beat, but then Reyes grimaces. "Couple days. We asked the media not to release anything at first, but they barely waited a whole fucking twenty-four hours." He shrugs his shoulders and lets them fall. "She's more high profile than the average civilian."

Jesse nods slowly, lips pressed tight together. He leaves with agitation running through his veins and impatience in his chest, all the more eager to get on the damn aircraft and make it to Gibraltar. The sooner they go to Hanamura, the better — anything to get away from Zürich and all its fucking politics. Maybe by the time they're done and he and Genji get swept towards somewhere else, the dust will have settled enough to laugh about it all.

 _But_ , Jesse thinks as he passes Morrison's dark, empty office on his way down the hall, _probably not_.

It's Genji he finds last, sitting by himself at a table with his hands clasped in front of him in the courtyard near another group of agents who are all absorbed in some raucous conversation. Ignoring the shouting laughter, Jesse tries just as much to tune out his own unrest.

Genji doesn't say anything when Jesse reaches him, but he does shift away a little as if to give Jesse plenty of room. Jesse takes it as a greeting as best he can. He gestures at the empty spot. "Taken?"

"By you, I assume."

Jesse drops into the seat next to him lightly, brim of his hat shielding his eyes from the sun. He looks sideways to Genji. "You packed yet?"

"Yes." Genji lifts a hand, his right, and flexes the fingers. "Are you?"

"Almost done."

There's a cackle from one of the agents nearby. It's only a brief interruption. When the sound fades, Genji says, keenly, "You haven't started."

"Nope," Jesse concedes. Where Reyes hadn't had the chance to call him out on it, Genji's wasting no time. "I'll get it done. Just wanted to take it slow."

"Ah, yes. Because you have been so busy."

The reply, though no more caustic than usual, rankles, somehow, considering Genji would prod at him for it when _Genji's_ the whole reason that he's been without any real list of missions for the last long, long while. Jesse narrows his eyes at him slightly but keeps the sharp reply tucked away for another time.

"As a matter of fact, yeah, I have been. Didn't really say nothin' the last time I took off," he says. "Or the time before that. No telling where I'll end up after this is over with, so I've been sayin' my goodbyes."

He can't parse if Genji's silence afterwards means something good or something bad and fiddles with his thumbs, pokes at the space between the metal plates on his left arm, presses his heel hard into the grass just to feel the ground and dirt sink in a little. (Anything to ruin the perfectly crafted lawn.) He itches for a smoke but with a pat to his pocket and a huff realizes that he left them all in his room, waiting to get shoved in a duffel along with everything else.

"How was it?"

Jesse peeks over at Genji. Genji's turned towards him just enough to make it seem like they're having a conversation, and his posture's stiff, but it rarely isn't; besides, Jesse's grateful for _any_ offer of conversation right about now. Even something wobbly as this.

"My goodbyes? Uh… pretty shitty," Jesse says, cutting no corners. "There's a lot goin' on. Don't know how it'll pan out, but I'll be glad when we're across the world from it."

"Mm."

It's not much of a reply as replies go, and Genji tilts his head away. Jesse thinks back to Angela's concern all of a sudden, and before thinking better of it, asks, "What about you?"

Genji turns to look him full in the face. "What about me?"

"You looking forward to finishing things up in Hanamura?" Jesse levels his gaze on him, unfazed. "Not trying to start nothing, I swear. Just curious."

"It is the deal I made," Genji says, curt, like that's all there is to it.

Jesse picks at the edge of the table, where it's peeling from one too many people like him messing with it. "That simple, huh."

"Should I be _excited_?"

The question doesn't sound angry, but Jesse's been piss-poor at trying to read him in the past. Genji leans toward him slightly but Jesse doesn't budge, unwilling to be the first who breaks.

"I talked to Angie, is all. She was worried." The back of his neck begins to itch, but he ignores it. "Figure if I'm gonna be backin' you up, I need to know how you feel about it all."

Genji seems to deliberate for a moment. Then: "You have seen what they do."

"Nothin' pretty about it," Jesse agrees, grim.

"So it is _that simple_. I will do what I promised. The Shimada Clan will be no more. And that is all."

There's resentment there, burning underneath the steely words. That long-running bitterness that he'd first heard from Genji back when he'd been stuck in the medbay hasn't gone far at all. Makes sense, when the last thing his family's given him is a grudge that'll get them all killed.

Jesse studies him for a long, suspended sort of quiet. _And that is all_ , he'd said. One and done.

"You're not sticking around after this?" he says, slow and careful.

Genji's words lilt strangely in reply, almost entertained at Jesse's expense, almost as if it's funny to imagine. "What reason do I have to stay?"

And Jesse doesn't have an answer for him.

It doesn't surprise him to hear that he isn't planning on staying with Overwatch. As far as he can tell, Genji's never really carved out a spot for himself within the group. Maybe not by choice, initially, being Overwatch's secret cyborg. But even now, if he still isn't convinced after spending so much time involved with other agents' training, then that's that. Like he said — it's the deal he made. Help Overwatch with the Shimada op. Get it done. Do the job. Finish it. When there's nothing left for him to do, why _would_ he stay?

But Jesse has never considered _leaving_ as an option. Not for them. For other agents, who join by military or political means, sure. The ones who dream of making the world a better place, the ones that get approached and asked kindly to contribute to the organization. The ones who step up on a podium and talk about plans and ideals.

They're not those agents.

And suddenly, he feels an all new sort of lonely.

"I ain't gonna try to stop you," Jesse replies, finally.

"You _couldn't_ ," Genji corrects. But Jesse thinks he looks a little less wound-up, a little less tense.

Jesse doesn't bother to argue with him. He stands up, pushes off from the table and stretches out his back. In the midst of their conversation, everyone else has left the courtyard; it's just them now, time growing short. The hangar will be expecting them soon, and they'll get flown out to Gibraltar.

"Well. If it's gonna be your last mission," Jesse says to him, "might as well make it count."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (we do intend on finishing this, but life comes first!!)


End file.
